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A   PAGE   OF   MODEBJf   TYPE. 


[See  "  The  Two  Pages." 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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BEILLIANT    TALES 


LONDON   SOCIETY. 


PROFUSELY   ILLUSTRATED   WITH   ELEGANT 
ENGRAVINGS   ON  WOOD. 


NEW    YORK: 
SOLD   BY   KURD   AND   HOUGHTON. 

1869. 


CONTENTS. 


Drawn  by  Page 

,\  Happy  New  Year T.  S.  Seccomhe  41 

A  Pastoial  Episode         .,          ..          ..          ,.          ..          ,.            W.  Small  406 

A  Romance  in  a  Boardiiig-House            ..          ..          ..          ..    Adelaide  Claxton  328 

A  Shot  at  Twelve  Paces             ..          ..          .,          ..          ..          ..          ..  21 

A  Strange  Courtship       ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..           G.  Bowers  480 

An  Expensive  Journey    ..          ,.          ..          ..          ..          „     J.  G.  Thompson  36 

Aitists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures: — 

Perdita 470 

Before  the  Footlights     ..  .. C.  II.  Boss       30,  o2 

Changes              ..          .•          ..         ...          ..          .,          ..       J.  D.  Watson  373 

County  Courts  : —  W.  Brunton 

The  Judge  ..          ..          ,.          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  456 

The  U,-her..           457 

Plaintiffs  and  Defendants    ..  458,  459 

Tlie  Attorney          ..          ,.          ..          ,.          ..          .,          ..          ..  459 

Fashionable  Tea  Parties ..  ..        Fane  Wood   189,192 

Goldsmith  at  the  Temple  Gate] Paul  Gray  392 

Honeywood  and  the  Bailifis 248 

How  1  set  about  Paying  my  Debts        .,          ..          ..          ..         L.  C.  Henley  388 

How  I  made  my  Escape  from  Hydropathy       ,,  J.  G.  Thompson.       Frontispiece. 

Hunting  Sketches— An  «  Old  Hand  ' ■  G.  Bowers  224 

In  the  Consultation  Room          ..          ..          ..          ..          .,          ..          ..  481 

Interrupted         ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  565 

Leaving  the  Confessional            ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..  564 

Lily's  Loss          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..       J.  A.  Pasquier  3S1 

•/iiale  Alone ' W.  Small  277 

biietches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar: — 

Sir  Alexander  Cockburn     ..          ..          .,          ,,          ..          ..          ,.  86 

Lord  Chelmsford    ..          ..          ..          ..         ...          ..          ..          ..  87 

Lord  Westbury 184 

The  lite  Lord  Justice  Knight  Bruce         ..          ..          ,.          ..          ..  185 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock          252 

Lord  Chief  Baron  Kelly 257 

The  Right  Hon.  Sir  James  P.  Wilde         343 

Smothered  in  Roses          ..          ..        ..          ..          ..          ..        T.  S.  Seccomhe  511 

Social  Problems  ..           ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..            G.  Bowers  17 

Society  in  Japan  '          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..        Luke  Limner  331 

St.  Valentine's  Day        ..          ..           ..   F.  and  A.  Ckuivn  114 

Still  Unmarried Fane  Wood  521 

The  Gold  Sprite             ..           Alfred  frowquill  83 

The  Heart  hath  a  World  of  its  Own 547 

The  Meeting  between  the  Laurel  Hedges           ..          ..          ..          W,  Small  163 


iv  Contents, 

lAST  ov  F.scKAVi^GS— continued :                                                    Drawn  by  PaRf 

The  Ol.l,  01.1  Story        31!! 

The  Pit  at  the  Sti and C.  //.  A'oss     ]31,i:3:5 

The  Two  I\i;;es:—  F.    \V.  JieynolJs 

Am  llluinin:it<\I  r:i;jre           ..            ..           ..           ..            ..            ..            ..  I    .  .,„ 

A  P.igc  of  Modern   Type     ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..  / 

The  Wiiiiliiiij  of  the  Sk.in          31.  E.  Edwards  177 

To  a  Pretty  Stiaiii;cr     ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..  49 

'  Try  to  Ke>'|i  Kiim  and  True '               ..          ..          ..          ..          W.  Siiuill  3GI 

WMtchins;  :i  U'iiiilow       ..           ..           ..           ..           ..           ..    Adelaide  CLixton  430 

Uh.it's  111  the  l'iii>eis     ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ..     C,  11.  Bennett  513 

Winter I 

Women  and  tiieir  Ways              ,.           ..           ..           ,,           .,           ..           ..  19.^ 

Young  Lngiand              ..          ..          ..          ..          ..          ,,          ..          ••  288 


CalciS. 


Page 
A  Forgotten  Valentine  : — 

Chap.  I.  The  Missenger  whobore  it  120 

II.  Its  mark  on  tiie  years   to 

come 121 

III.  Its    mes&ige — after    many 

days 125 

A  Romanre  in  a  BoarJing-House      ..    321 

\  Shot  at  Twelve  Paces 21 

An  Expensive  Journey       35 

How  1  made  my  Escape  from  Hydio- 

pathy 481 

How  I  set  about   Paying  my  Debts. 

An  Oxford  .Story     '. 385 

Lily's  Loss.     In  Three  Chapters       ..   375 
Mr.  Fair  weather's  Vachting: — 

Chap.  II.   My  First  Vacht      ..       ..    305 

III.  In  trouble       4:i2 

Mi-s.  Brown's  Christmas  Story  ..       ..      4li 
Playing    for    High    Stakes.     By    the 

A  iithor  of '  Denis  Donne,' '  Played 
Out,"  &c.  :— 
Chap.  I.  iMis-s  Talbot  comes  Home  .        1 

II.  Mrs.  Sutton  is  frank  .       ..        7 

III.  False  Diplomacy      ..      ..      13 


ragp 
Playing  for  High  Stakes — contnucd. 

Chap.  IV.  Blandie 155 

V,  Cumbered  with  much  serv- 
ing       164 

VI.  The  Family  Party    ..      ..    167 

Vir.  Kin  and  K?nd 264 

VIII.  'VVhat  are  the  Wild  Waves 

Saying?' 268 

IX.  The  Daphne       277 

X.  'Blood     is     thicker    than 

Water'       352 

XI.  Se!f-Decpption 357 

XII.  Down  at  Haldon        ..      ..361 

XIII.  Weaving  the  Spell     ..      ..   406 

XIV.  An  Hour  of  Bliss 411 

XV.   Misiiiider.standing       ..       ,.    415 

XVI.  Brotherly  Counsel      ..       ..    420 

XViL  A  Day  Di&im 422 

XVIII.  By  the  Lake      648 

XIX.  '  ihou  art  so  near,  and  yet 

so  far  '        552 

XX.  Cause  for  Doubt         ..      ..    559 

Still  Unmarried  521 

The  White  Feather 203 


^hrtcfjri. 


An  F^vening  with  my  Uncle       ., 
Before  the  Footlights: — 

The  Private  Boxes  at  Drury  Lane  . 

The  Pit  at  the  Strand 

Boating  Lite  at  Oxford  : — 

Chap.  I.  The  New  Captain    .. 

II.   Our  'Torpid  ' 

III.  A  Biim[>  Slipper 

IV.  How  Wiiii;lield  .steered  the 

Oxfoid  Fight,  and  Bax- 
ter rowed  '  Five  ' 

County  Courts 

Kngngwl     

Kxpeiiences  on  D,4rtmoor 

l^es  Jeux  .Vtlildtiquex         

Piivale  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance 

ItecoUectious  of  a  Bacbelor        .. 


139 

30 
131 

289 
29i 
425 


541 
455 
5  »;.'■, 
5lt> 
3U 
223 
56 


Skctihes  of  the    English    Bench   and 
Bar  :— 

Introductory 86 

Tlie  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England 

(Sir  Alexander  Cotkburn)..       ..      89 
The  Lord  Chancellor  (Lord  Chelms- 
ford)        95 

Lord  West  bury      178 

The  late  Lord  Justice  Knight  Bruce   181 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock      a")2 

Lord  Chief  Baron  helly  ..       ..    256 

Sir  William  File 259 

Mr.  Justice  By  leg 262 

Sir    James    Wilde,    Judge    of    the 

Divoice  Court 34."^ 

Mr.  Justice  Willes  348 

VMiat's  in  the  Papeis?      512 


Contents. 


IfiltiSrrllancons   ^apcrS. 


Ambassadors  out  of  Work 70 

Aiecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs: — 

I'aiti 101 

II 234 

III 461 

Artists'  Notes  tVom  Clioice  Pictures: — 

Honeywood  introducinj;  tlie  Bailitls 

to  Miss  Kichlaiid  as  his  Friends,.  247 

Peidita 470 

A  Summer  Trip  across  the  Atlantic. 

By  one  wlio  lielped  to  lay  the  Cable  75 

A  Winter  at  St.  Ptter^-burg       ..       ..  145 

Balls  in  Vienna 50 

Curiosities  of  Fashion.     In  the  matter 

ot  one's  Food 334 

Etiquettes  of  Cirief 199 

Fashionable  Tea  Parties 188 


Page 

Modern  Beau  Brumtnellism       ..      ..  298 

Playgiounils  of  Einope — The  South  ..  441 

^onielhing  .iboiit  Breakfiist         ..       ..  97 

St.  Val.ii'tine's  Day 113 

The    '  Beaux  Moiides  '    of  Paris  and 

London 17 

The  Inter-University  Games      ..       ..  49G 

The  l-ast  Run  with  the  Harriers        ..  400 

The  Last  Itun  with  the  Staghounds  ..  504 

The  Society  of  Female  Aiti.sis    ..       ..  30'J 

The  Subiime  Society  of  Stiaks  ..       ..  2b2 

The  Tamar  and  Tiie  Tavy  ..  ..  449 
Vi.-its  to  Country  Houses: — 

No.  1 64 

II 126 

III 393 

Women  and  their  Ways 193 


iSoftri?. 


A  Happy  New  Tear 41 

A'  Rhyme   for    January:    The    Gold 

Sprite 82 

A  Strange  Courtship 475 

Castles  in  the  Air 288 

Changes      370 

Leavinc;  the  Confessional 664 

Goldsmith  at  the  Temple  Gate  ..       ..391 
Over  aBiule-Gueule 246 


Smothered  in  Roses 511 

Society  in  Japan        330 

Tiie  Duke's  Answer.  A  Modern  Myth  173 
The  Heait  hath  a  World  of  its  Own  ..  547 
The  Oil,  Old  Story.    Sybaris  to  Ljdia  319 

The  Two  Pages 137 

The  Winding  of  the  Skein 177 

To  a  Pietty  Stranger       49 

Watching  a  Window  .•      ..      ..   430 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


FEBRUARY,    1867. 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  BREAKFAST 


IT  has  often  been  asserted  that  as 
long  as  human  beings  congre- 
gate together  like  wild  beasts  at 
'  feeding  times,'  this  age  has  no 
right  to  lay  claim  to  superior  civi- 
lization, and  that  it  would  be  an 
improved  manner  of  life  if  relays 
of  food  could  be  brought  to  some 
particular  place  at  stated  times,  to 
which  any  who  chose  might  resort, 

As  it  is  an  acknowledged  fact, 
that  society  and  conversation  are 
the  best  promoters  of  digestion,  the 
plan  tliat  these  captious  people 
propose  would  be  both  unwhole- 
some and  unsocial,  but  it  might  be 
advantageously  acted  upon  in  the 
matter  of  breakfast,  for  that,  as 
English  people  ordain  it,  is  de- 
cidedly a  mistake. 

'  Breakfast  is  such  a  charmingly 
pocial  meal,'  we  heard  a  lady  once 
say  in  speaking  of  a  large  breakfast 
in  a  country  -  house,  *  every  one 
comes  down  so  fresh,  everybody  is 
in  time,  and  ready  for  the  duties 
and  pleasures  of  the  day.  I  con- 
sider it  a  delightful  moment.'  It  was 
a  sentimental  and  poetical  view, 
but  as  far  as  possible  removed  from 
the  truth ;  for  in  our  estimation  it  is 
a  peculiarly  unhappy  moment,  and 
one  in  which  many  persons  are  prone 
to  regard  their  fellow-creatures  as 
their  natural  enemies. 

When  people  are  hungry  and 
cold  it  follows  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  they  are  cross,  and  as  large 
parties  in  country-houses  usually 
ojcur  in  the  winter,  this  is  tolerably 
sure  to  be  the  case.  Shy  people, 
too,  are  always  shy  in  the  morning  ; 
they  cannot  tiike  up  life  where  they 
left  it  the  night  before,  or  say  '  Good- 
morning'  at  all  m  the  same  happy 

t\jL..  il.   -NO.  LXII 


and  friendly  spirit  in  which  they 
said  '  Good-night.' 

People  are  not  ready  for  social 
intercourse  till  they  have  been  up 
at  least  three  hours.  It  is  quite 
curious  to  see  how  disagreeable 
really  good-humoured  people  often 
are  before  breakfast.  They  are 
often  conscious  of  their  moroscness, 
and  try  to  conceal  it  by  utter  silence- 
or  cynical  smiles;  but  with  all  their 
endeavours  we  are  aware  that  it 
would  be  a  service  of  danger  to 
speak  to  them,  and  whether  it  be 
our  most  valued  friend,  or  simply  a 
highly  agreeable  or  intellectual  ac- 
quaintance, we  equally  hope  that 
it  may  never  be  our  fate  to  meet 
him  again  at  breakfast.  Surely  it 
would  be  a  great  advantage  to  the 
world  if  these  individuals  break- 
fasted alone ! 

Perhaps  the  most  depressing  thing 
we  can  meet  with  is  anything  like 
hilarity  or  even  great  clieerfulnesa- 
so  early  in  the  day.  Few  thing* 
are  more  trying  than  the  jovial, 
hearty  manner  in  which  the  master 
of  the  house  often  enters  the  room 
where  his  guests  are  assembled  in, 
the  morning.  If  in  winter,  with 
blue  nose  and  red  hands,  loud  in 
his  praise  of  the  weather  (which  to 
our  thinking  is  simply  detestable), 
advising  every  one  to  follow  his 
example  and  take  a  turn  before 
breakfrist :  '  Sharpens  the  appetite ; 
freshens  one  up ;  does  a  world  of 
good.'  Take  a  turn  before  breakfast 
that  raw  January  day !  you  cannot 
even  reply  exct^pt  by  drawing  closer 
to  the  tire,  and  looking  with  horror 
at  tiie  freezing  fog  through  tho 
windi  I'v.  You  sit,  down  t  >  1  )r(  ak  fast 
to  endure  another  tritl  iVo  u  your 
a 


98 


SoDulhJTKj  (ihitut  lircnkfntit. 


wcll-mrfiniiip  host,  he  Ixinp:  <^iif'  of 
those  who  inviiriulily  iiiuUe  a  pro- 
pramiiie  of  tlie  day  lor  other  i^'op'o, 
totally  repmiless  of  the  fact  tliiit 
what  people  may  like  to  do  at  two 
o'clock  they  dislike  at  ten,  and 
vice  )v  ;>(}.  But  all  tliis  goc^  for 
nothing  with  your  eheerfiii  friend. 
He  usually  calls  to  his  wife,  who  is 
ahsorhed  in  a  tea  pot  at  the  farthest 
end  of  the  tahle,  '  Well,  my  dear, 
and  what  have  you  arranged  for 
our  friends  to  do  to-day?'  There  is 
a  murnuired  response  to  the  effect 
that  no  one  wishes  to  do  anything. 
'  It  is  so  very  cold  to-day,'  Mrs. 
replies,  languidly. 

'  Cold!  not  at  all ;  that  is  so  like 
you  laxiies,  who  never  take  any  ex- 
ercise, and  do  nothing  to  promote 
circulation  ;  then  you  say  it  is  cold ! 
It  is  a  tine,  healthy,  f-ea.'^onable  day ; 
no  sign  of  rain  or  snow.  A  day 
like  this  in  January  mu.st  not  be 
wasted.  Come,  wliat  will  you  all 
do?    What  would  you  like?' 

'  To  be  left  alone,'  is  the  unspoken 
reply  in  the  mind  of  most  of  his 
guests,  but  of  course  the  ungracious 
thought  is  not  put  into  words.  The 
pertinaciou.s  pleasure- hunter  maps 
out  the  day  for  them.  They  can 
only  resign  themselves  to"  his  will, 
hoping  that  some  happy  coinci- 
dence, such  as  morning  visitors, 
or  a  fall  of  snow,  may  give  them  a 
pretext  for  remaining  comfortably 
by  the  fireside. 

There  are  always  some  people 
who  are  more  restless  or  less  self- 
sufficing  than  others,  who  really 
prefer  anything  to  tlieir  own  society 
or  remaining  ([uiet ;  but  these  are 
exceptions,  and  to  those  who  are 
victims  to  this  kind  of  energetic 
ruling  it  is  poor  comfort  to  know 
that  the  .same  wearisome  repetition 
awaits  them  on  the  morrow. 

Kind-hearted  people  often  unin- 
tentionally indict  considerable  an- 
noyance on  their  friends  by  inquir- 
ing anxiously  every  morning  after 
Hieir  health.  One  comfort  is  that 
tile  inquirer  often  forgets  to  wait 
for  a  reply  ;  for  as  sleepless  nights 
and  aching  hea/ls  are  in  themselves 
sufficiently  miserable,  few  are  de- 
sirous of  going  through  a  cross- 
examination  upon  them. 

There  has   l>ccn   a    considerablo 


change  of  late  years  in  the  fa'^hion 
of  breakfu-st.  It  is  a  good  tkal  more 
ml  liliitinii  as  to  time,  ranging  from 
half-])ast  nine  to  twt-lve.  Tea  and 
coffee  are  seldom  now  put  upon  the 
table,  but  are  made  out  of  the  room, 
or  by  servants,  on  the  side-table, 
who  hand  the  cups  as  they  are 
wanted.  In  some  large  hou.sts 
several  small  tables  are  set  for 
breakfast,  so  that,  as  there  are  only 
three,  or  at  most  four  places,  people 
may  be  said  in  some  sense  to  l)reak- 
fast  alone,  or  at  least  with  whom 
they  please.  This  is,  upon  the 
whole,  a  good  arrangement,  but  we 
doubt  if  it  would  not  be  still  more 
desirable  for  people  to  breakfast 
alone  in  their  rooms.  The  objec- 
tion to  this  would  probably  Ix),  that 
to  carry  up  breakfast  to  eightten  or 
twenty  people  as  varied  and  recherche 
as  it  is  made  now,  consisting  of  fish, 
hot  and  cold  meat,  and  fruit,  as 
well  as  tea,  coffee,  bread,  butter,  and 
eggs  — to  send  up,  in  fact,  to  each 
person  a  miniature  dinner,  would 
exhaust  the  resources  of  the  largest 
establishment.  One  way,  and  per- 
haps the  best  way  of  meeting  this 
difiiculty  would  l>e  to  iuu'tate  the 
example  of  most  foreigners,  who 
have  a  cup  of  coffee  or  chocolate 
wlun  they  first  rise,  and  only  come 
down  at  eleven  or  twelve  o'clock 
tor  the  ilei'thirr,  which  witli  them 
corresponds  to  our  luncheon ;  for  no 
more  eating  is  considered  nec&«sary 
till  dinner-time,  which  is  generally 
not  later  than  seven  o'clock.  They 
have  meat  and  wine  as  well  as  tea 
and  coffee,  and  their  ilrji  uurr,  in 
fact,  combines  breakfast  and  lun- 
cheon in  one.  This  is  in  many 
respects  a  much  wiser  division  of 
the  day,  as  it  leaves  the  whole  after- 
noon free  for  exercise  or  aiiuisement, 
either  at  home  or  abroad.  IJut  the 
amount  of  food  that  is  put  k-foro  us 
at  breakfast  is  totally  ur^nece'-sary, 
and  if  the  meal  wore  ciiangedtoa 
more  simi)le  one  there  wouM  be  no 
longer  any  difficulty  about  having 
it  alone. 

Though  we  have  been  discu.ssing 
our  fireakfast,  nothing  hasliecn  said 
of  the  ffKxi  of  which  it  should  con- 
sist. Peophj's  tastes  are  so  dilTcr- 
ent  that  it  is  quite  impossible  to  lay 
down  any  gastronomic  law  upon  a 


SomfOiing  nhout  nrenhfnut. 


99 


meal  tho  constitnents  of  which  vary 
from  biratl  and  water,  to  sahnon 
and  gniuso,  and  p«''t'  <ie  foie  </ras. 
We  have  Been  unhappy  wretches 
deliberately  pour  out  a  tumbler  of 
cold  water  as  their  only  breakfast 
beverage.  Others,  who  make  equal 
sacrifices  at  the  shrine  of  health,  arc 
content  to  abjure  even  bread  and 
butter,  and  breakfast  entirely  on 
some  unpalateable  mess,  which,  by 
dint  of  advertisements,  has  worked 
its  way  into  fashion.  Gentlemen 
who  are  addicted  to  field  sports,  and 
who  for  the  most  part  despise  lun- 
cheon, make  breakfast  a  most  sub- 
stantial meal.  Indeed,  modern 
breakf^xsts  seem  drifting  back  to  the 
beef  and  ale  and  goodly  capons  that 
young  ladies  found  necessary  to 
support  nature  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time.  Ladies,  and  idle  men  of  a 
more  sedentary  turn,  are  contented 
to  depend  mainly  upon  luncheon. 

There  are  other  kinds  of  break- 
fasts, besides  the  early  morning 
meal  of  which  we  have  been  speak- 
ing. It  is  a  constant  habit  with  the 
literary  world  in  London  to  have 
reunions  of  scientific  and  agreeable 
people  early  in  the  day,  and  what 
in  the  evening  would  be  a  convtj'sa- 
zione,  in  the  morning  is  simply 
called  a  breakfast.  But  the  greatest 
misnomer  of  all  is  the  habit,  in 
London,  of  calling  a  dinner,  and  a 
ball  and  a  suiDiDer,  if  given  alfresco, 
a  '  breakfiist.'  No  one  dreams  of 
going  to  these  parties  till  five  * 
o'clock,  and  they  last  frequently  till 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  As 
the  meeting  usually  takes  place  in 
the  garden  or  grounds  of  some  villa 
near  London,  the  guests  appear  in 
morning  dresses,  which  we  suppose 
is  the  reason  of  this  strangely  mis- 
applied term. 

There  is  another  annoyance  to 
■which  those  who  never  breakfast 
alone  are  exposed.  lietters  in  the 
coiintry  always  arrive  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  we  are  tolerably  sure  when 
we  go  down  stairs  to  find  a  packet 
of  letters  on  the  table  awaiting  us. 
It  is  amusing  to  watch  the  different 
manner  in  which  people  behave 
about  their  letters.  Some  dart 
eagerly  upon  them,  are  instantly 
absorbed  in  their  contents,  from 
time  to  time  doling  out  small  pieces 


of  intelligence  from  them ;  others 
examine  them  carefully,  anl  then 
lay  them  aside,  deferring  the  plea- 
sure or  the  pain  of  their  perusal  to 
a  '  more  convenient  season ;'  others, 
and  these  for  the  most  part  young 
men,  take  them  up  with  real  or 
affected  indifference,  and  transfer 
them  at  once  to  their  pockets.  The 
chances  are  that  these  consist  prin- 
cipally of  reminders,  more  or  less 
pres'jing,  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  Bond  Street,  Regent  Street,  and 
Piccadilly.  Their  content'*  may  pos- 
^ibly  be  parajihrased  in  the  parody 
of  a  well-known  ballad: — 

'  Yuu  remember,  you  remember, 

'I'lie  little  bill  you  owe ; 
'Tis  but  two  pound  ten  and  four,  sir, 
And  I've  waited  long,  you  know. 

'  On  my  word,  sir,  on  my  word,  sir, 
1  wouldn't  trouble  now, 
But  I've  got  a  long  account,  sir, 
To  malce  up,  and  don't  know  liow. 

•  You  do  take,  sir,  you  do  give,  sir. 
Three  letters  every  day ; 
O  D  V  is  what  you  taUi>,  sir, 
I  0  U  is  what  you  I'ay.' 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  these  'le- 
jected  iiddresses '  form  a  large  por- 
tion of  many  people's  correspond- 
ence !  There  is  one  very  odd  pecu- 
liarity that  many  people  have  about 
their  letters,  and  one  for  which  it  is 
difficult  to  account.  If  a  letter  or 
note  is  brought,  and  the  receiver  is 
somewhat  puzzled  to  know  from 
whence  it  comes,  the  seal  is  closely 
investigated,  the  direction  pondered 
over,  the  postmark  held  up  to  the 
light;  every  possible  trouble  is 
taken  to  examine  the  outside  of  a 
letter,  when,  by  simply  opening  it, 
the  desired  knowledge  would  be 
attained.  Does  this  show  that  hu- 
man nature  delights  in  a  mystery  ? 

In  some  houses  it  is  the  custom 
for  the  children  to  be  brought  down 
to  l>e  admired  at  breakfast.  This 
habit,  unless  the  children  are  quiet 
to  stupidity,  cannot  fail  to  be  a 
nuisance.  The  only  time  that  we 
can  gladly  hail  the  appearance  of 
children  out  of  their  own  legitimate 
sphere,  is  in  the  formidable  half- 
hour  liefore  dinner  is  announced. 
Then  they  create  a  diversion,  and 
possibly  suggest  topics  of  conver- 
sation. 


100 


Somoilnnj  ahovu  Brenl-fust. 


Ikcakfnst  is  pcnorally,  nioro  or 
less,  a  soloinn  j-roc-rj;.  Tho  only 
aim  at  Kpriplitliiicss  it  was  over  our 
futo  to  witness  was  so  (li>astrou3  in 
it-i  results  tliat  wo  could  only  hope 
tlio  attempt  would  never  bo  re- 
peated, it  was  at  a  hw^c.  ]iarty  in 
a  country-honso,  and  the  conversa- 
tion had  aecidi'titally  turned  upon 
ej,'j:H.  The  youiiij:  lady  of  the  house, 
who  was  seateil  hy  a  ci-livmit  j<;nnc 
hoiiimr,  an  exijnisite  of  the  Lu^t  pone- 
ration,  who  had  hcen  evidently  taken 
with  her  hcauty  and  gay  spirits,  de- 
clared that  it  was  impossible  to 
break  an  cj-'p  by  pressing  it  ever  so 
tightly,  ])n)vi(kd  you  held  it  in  such 
a  miuiuer  that  the  two  ends,  and  no 
other  part,  touch  the  palms  of  tho 
hand.<.  Her  neighbour  heard  her 
with  a  supercilious  smile,  and  re- 
commended lier  to  try.  She  re- 
peated that  she  had  seen  it  done 
constantly,  and  would  convince  him 
there  and  then  of  tho  truth  of  her 
assertion.  So  siiying,  sho  took  up 
an  egg,  and  turning  towards  him, 
said,  '  Now,  see  if  1  am  not  right!' 
Wlicn,  to  her  di.smay,  tho  egg 
smashed  at  onco,  and  its  contents 
s|)urted  over  the  very  particular  gen- 
tleman by  her  side,  soiling  his  fault- 
less shirt  and  waistco;it,  and  cling- 
ing pertinaciously  to  his  whiskers 
and  stubbly  beard.  Utterly  dis- 
mayed at  such  a  very  unexpected 
disaster,  partly  from  amu.'-emcnt, 
and  partly  from  nervousness,  MiiU 


— ^  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laugh- 
ing. Her  example  was  followed  by 
several  others,  for  in  truth  nothing 
could  jire.sent  a  more  ludcroMS  and 
unliapj)y  ai)pearance  tliati  the  poor 
man.  liesides  which,  ho  was  fu- 
riously angry,  believing  tiie  whole 
thing  to  have  been  a  previously  ar- 
ranged practical  joke,  and  to  sco 
that  ho  was  the ■  laughing  stock  of 
tlio  company,  of  course  enraged 
him  still  more.  In  vain  the  poor 
girl  tried  to  explain  that  the  acci- 
dent was  quite  i;nintentional,  and, 
indeed,  that  her  theory  stdl  held 
good,  as  the  egg  was  broken  not  hy 
the  pressure  but  by  her  ring,  which 
she  liad  forgotten  to  remove.  lie 
would  hear  nothing,  hurried  out  of 
tho  room  to  repair  the  nn'sehief 
done  to  his  dress,  and  would  not  re- 
turn to  tho  break  fast- table  ;  in  fact, 
we  did  not  sec  him  again,  for  ho  left 
the  house  the  fame  day. 

We  have  not  spoken  of  the  ar- 
rangement of  a  l)reak fast-table,  or 
the  pretty  decorations  of  which  it  is 
capable.  Flowers  seem  more  in 
keeping  with  breakfast  than  with 
dinner,  for  if  tho  china  is  ever  so 
l>eautiful,  or  tho  damask  ever  so 
fine,  a  bnak  fast -table  is  dull  and 
colourless  without  tlum.  But  how- 
ever inviting  it  may  Ik?  made,  wo 
still  hold  to  our  theory  that  for  the 
most  part  it  is  better  to  break fiist 
alouo. 

Jll.  T. 


101 


ANECDOTE  AND  GOSSIP  ABOUT  CLUliS. 


PART  I. 


'■PHEword  Cluh  has  puzzled  the 
1  brain  of  many  an  acute  ety- 
mologist, and  of  many  a  lazy  specu- 
lator who  is  content  to  wonder  on 
for  ever  as  to  what  in  the  world  so 
odd,  and  abrupt,  and  compact  a 
monosyllable  might  originally  mean, 
and  where  in  the  world  it  dropped 
from,  to  become  a  euphonious  part 
of  English,  and  latterly  of  almost 
universal  speech.    , 

Bailey,  one  of  our  veteran  lexi- 
cographers, defines  a  club— which 
he  identities  with  the  Saxon  cluhbe, 
and  associates  with  the  Latin  dava 
— as  (i)  a  great  thick  stick;    and 
(2)  an  assembly  of   good  fellows. 
The  verb  to  cluh  comes,  according  to 
the  same  authority,  from  the  Saxon 
cleovan,  to  cleave,  and  refers  to  the 
division  of  expenses  amongst  the 
members,  where  it  was  expected  of 
'  every  man  to  pay  an  equal  share.' 
Skinner    is   of   the  same  opinion; 
deriving  the  verb  to  cluh  from  the 
Anglo-Saxon     clcofan,    findere,     to 
cleave,    divide,     because    the    ex- 
penses are  divided  into  shares  or 
portions.    To  club  is  thus,  with  him, 
to  contribxite  a  share  or  portion; 
and  a  club  is  an  assembly  of  per- 
sons, contributing  each  nis  share  or 
portion.  Noah  Webster,  as  becomes 
his  diluvian  Christian  name,  is  more 
recondite,   and    quotes  the  Welsh 
clopd  as  a  probable  derivation.     On 
the  whole,  we  are  rather  inclined  to 
favour  the  theory  of  Webster;  for 
if   it  be  allowed,   it  will  help  us 
somewhat  to  get  out  of  another  dif- 
ficulty which  it  requires  a  dasMng 
decision  to  solve.    We  refer  to  the 
question  of  the  antiquity  of  cinbs. 
For  if  the  modern  word  be  ^  direct 
descendant  of  one  similar  in  sound 
in  the  language  of  the  Cymry— a 
language  which  has  been  proved,  to 
the  perfect  and  unanimous  satisli^/;- 
tion  of  the  demonstrator  himself,  to 
have  been  the  language  of  our  first 
parents — it  would  not  be  too  much 
to  assume,  even  for  so  unassuming 
a  person  as  the  present  writer,  that 
Adam  had  invented  the  word  to 
describe  the  important  little  commu- 


nity of  whicft  ho  was  the  President, 
and  of  which  Eve,  according  to  Euri- 
pides and  Milton,  was  the  Ktce. 

But  he  is  a  poor  thing  in  com- 
parative philology  who  cannot  make 
one  word  do  double  duty — who  can- 
not engraft  a  slip  from  one  language 
into  the  stock  of  another.  The  no- 
tion, which  belongs  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  derivation,  of  an  equal  or 
equitable  division  of  expenses,  is  no 
embarrassment  to  us.  If  money  had 
not  yet  been  coined  or  dvig  from 
the  tortured  bowels  of  the  deep,  ex- 
penses could  still  be  jointly  borne 
by  a  system  of  equivalents.  Labour 
is  the  basis  of  capital.  We  know 
that — 

'  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span,' 

though  what  she  span  for  is  not  so 
easy  to  decipher  in  the  prce  figleaf 
epoch  of  her  existence — and  that  he 
was  a  '  grand  old  gardener,'  and  she 
a  setter- out  of  simple  and  elegant 
repasts.  The  manly,  invigorating 
toil  of  the  one  was  fairly  compen- 
sated by  the  gentle  activity  of  the 
other ;  and  if  Eve  had  earned,  by 
previous  exertion,  the  right  to  crack 
her  filbert,  Adam  no  less,  by  grate- 
ful and  unsweating  lai)Our,  had 
made  good  his  privilege,  like  a  very 
aneient  Pistol,  to  enjoy  his  leek. 

We  are  aware  that  there  are  many 
painful  contrasts  between  the  club- 
life  of  Eden  and  that  of  Pall  3Iall. 
Cookery  was  nowhere  in  those  pri- 
meval days;  and  the  illustrious 
Soyer  would  no  doubt  have  inferred, 
from  the  fact  that,  even  when  pre- 
paring to  entertain  company,  there 
was  •  no  fear  lest  dinner  cool,'  that 
soup— in  which  temperature  is,  if 
a  small,  yet  an  emphatic  considera- 
tion— I -id  not  initiate  the  banquet. 
However,  all  things  must  have  a 
begruning,  just  as  imperatively  as, 
ptilosophers  tell  us,  all  things  must 
Lave  an  end.  Housekeeping  is  not 
learned  perfectly  in  a  prolonged 
pic-nic;  and  it  would  not  have  sur- 
prised us  if  Milton,  who  has  dog- 
matised as  much  about  Paradise  as 
most  people,  had  stated  that  the 
first  dejeuner  therein  was  not,  strictly 


102 


Anecdote  and  Gossin  about  Clubs, 


f-peakinp:,  a  la  fourchctlc.  Chilwlife, 
again,  is  not  a  gourd,  a  muslirooin, 
or  oven  a  Minerva.  It  is  not  tlie 
growth  of  u  day,  just  as  lionio  was 
not  the  growth  of  a  day.  It  docs 
not  leap  forth  fully  {-(juipped  and 
perfect  in  all  points,  like  an  un- 
mothered  goddes.^.  But  what  we 
have  chiefly  to  complain  of— it  is,  by 
the  way,  a  nice  question  whether,  if 
perfect  rules  had  been  in  vogue  in  the 
Adaiu-aud-Eve  club,  wo  should  ever 
have  had  the  oi)portuuity  either  to 
comi)lain  or  to  apj)rovo  of  its  rules, 
or  of  anything  else  connected  with  it 
— is  that  no  code  of  exclusion  liad 
been  drawn  up,  or,  if  it  had,  that  it 
■wa.s  administered  with  a  too  great 
laxity.  The  black  ball  had  either 
not  been  introduced  for  the  keeping 
out  of  ineligible  candidates,  or  the 
mother  of  mankind  forgot,  on  at 
least  one  memorable  and  disastrous 
occasion,  to  exercise  her  privilege; 
and  this,  too,  in  the  absence  of  her 
husband,  who,  by  as  disastrous  an 
oversight,  had  omitted  to  leave  his 
veto  proxy.  The  Club  of  Paradise 
■was  essentially  a  club  for  two;  the 
introduction  of  a  third  member,  it 
may  bo  said  with  reverence,  played 
the  serpent  with  it.  So  much  for 
the  antiquity  of  clubs.  It  is  enough 
to  have  tixed  tlie  first ;  and  we  shall 
not  again  intrude  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Flood,  except  barely  to  men- 
tion that  memorable  little  associa- 
tion which  floated  over  its  dangers 
secure  within  the  wooden  walls  of 
the  Ark.  That  also  was  a  temporary 
association,  which  carried  within 
itself  the  seeds  of  dissolution.  With 
the  subsidence  of  the  waters  it  was 
dissolved  accf)rdingly. 

Man,  it  has  been  profoundly  ob- 
served, is  a  social  animal.  lie  likes 
to  link  his  life  to  that  of  another 
man;  sometimes  in  desjieration,  of 
love  or  of  some  other  ])leasant  utfec- 
tion,  to  that  of  a  woman  But  in 
addition  to  his  fondness  for  society 
—  a  disposition  which  presup|)ose8 
a  tendency  to  interchange  views  on 
things  in  general  in  random  aiid 
miscellaneous  gatherings— he  is  also 
an  a.ssociative  animal.  That  is,  ho 
is  social  and  exclusive  at  once.  lie 
will  Ik)  on  intimate  terms  with  some 
riiie,  not  with  every  one.  IIo  will 
have  his  choice,  moro  or  less,  in  hia 


convives  or  companions.  Ho  is  not 
a  straw  or  a  feather,  to  be  drifted 
any  whither  or  blown  upon  by  every 
wind  of  heaven;  not  a  pii^e,  to 
Ik)  played  upon  by  every  ]jassiug 
bungler  of  a  musician.  This  ten- 
dency to  correct  sociability  by  exclu- 
siveness,  is  one  which  manifests  it- 
self in  diflerent  degrees  in  different 
countries,  and  in  ditierent  stages  of 
taste  or  phases  of  civilization.  The 
higher  his  amount  cjf  culture,  the 
more  dainty  and  txi'/tunt  will  a  man 
be  in  the  demands  he  makes  for  a 
like  amount  in  his  fellows;  and  if 
the  training  of  the  intellect  has  not 
worn  away  and  eriu-ed  the  heart, 
the  greater  will  be  the  fastidious- 
ness with  which  he  selects  the  few 
whom  he  will  venture  to  make  the 
depositaries  of  his  profounder  senti- 
ments. Education  multiplies  inde- 
finitely the  possibility  of  ditTerences 
of  opinion,  although  it  abridges  the 
likelihood  of  their  external  manifes- 
tation. Two  New  Zealanders  may 
only  be  distinguished  by  the  i)re- 
ference  of  the  one  for  an  Englishman, 
of  the  other  for  a  Frenchman — we 
mean  when  viewed  as  materid  for 
their  simple  cuisine.  But  national 
enlightenment  and  individual  culti- 
vation will  introtluce  questions  of 
even  greater  delicacy  and  impor- 
tance than  the  relative  succulence 
of  a  Jesuit  and  a  Protestant  mis- 
sionary. And  there  is  scarcely  a 
point  of  dilTerence  in  matters  poli- 
tical, ecclesiastical,  social,  scientific, 
literary,  or  artistic,  which  has  not 
been  the  basis  on  which  a  club— an 
association  which  recognizes  the 
identity,  on  some  importiint  ques- 
tion, of  its  members,  and  the  diver- 
sity of  opinions  entertained  by  the 
persons  without  their  rules— has 
not  been  founded. 

England  has  been  reckoned  the 
native  land  of  clul)s,  and  the 
Englishman  the  most  clubbable  of 
animals.  The  reason  for  this  has 
l)cen  found  in  his  disj)f)siti(jn  to 
unbend  and  to  refect  himself  within 
a  limited  circle.  IIo  likes  to  take 
down  the  windows  of  his  heart ; 
but  it  shall  not  be  on  the  highway. 
IIo  likes  to  converse  al)out  tho 
secrets  of  his  party;  but  he  will  not 
iKjtray  its  watchwords  to  any  but 
ascertained  sympathizers.    The  fal- 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


103 


lacy  has  before  now  beeu  pointed 
out  which  made  Archbishop  Trcncli, 
in  his  unuiitred,  decanal  days,  infer 
that  because  the  dab  is,  in  its  modern 
sense,  a  peculiarly  English  idea  and 
entity,  therefore  the  English  are 
peculiarly  sociable  above  all  the 
other  nations  of  the  earth.  '  The 
contrary  is  true/  as  Grace  and 
Philip  Wharton,  in  their  '  Wits  and 
Beaux  of  Society,'  jointly  affirm; 
J  nay,  w<(s  true,  even  in  the  days  of 
Addison,  Swift,  Steele — even  in  the 
days  of  Johnson,  Walpole,  Selwyn; 
ay,  and  at  all  time  siuce  we  have 
been  a  nation.  The  fact  is,  we  are 
not  the  most  sociable,  but  the  most 
associative  race ;  and  the  establish- 
ment of  clubs  is  a  proof  of  it.  We 
cannot,  and  never  could,  talk  freely, 
comfortably,  and  generally,  without 
a  company  for  talking.  Coaversa- 
tion  has  always  been  with  us  as 
much  a  business  as  railroad-making, 
or  what  not.  It  has  always  de- 
manded certain  accessories,  certain 
condiments,  certain  stimulants  to 
work  it  up  to  the  proper  pitch. 
"  We  all  know"  we  are  the  cleverest 
and  wittiest  people  under  the  sun ; 
but  then  our  wit  has  been  stereo- 
typed. France  has  no  "  Joe  Miller ;" 
for  a  bon-mul  there,  however  good, 
is  only  appreciated  historically.  Our 
wit  is  printed,  not  spoken  ;  our  best 
wits  behind  an  inkhorn  have  some- 
times been  the  veriest  logs  in  society. 
On  the  Continent  clubs  were  not 
called  for,  because  society  itself  was 
the  arena  of  conversation.  In  this 
country,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man 
could  only  chat  when  at  his  ease ; 
could  only  be  at  his  ease  among 
those  who  agreed  with  him  on  the 
main  points  of  religion  and  politics, 
and  even  then  wanted  the  aid  of  a 
bottle  to  make  him  comfortable. 
Our  want  of  sociability  was  the 
cause  of  our  clubbing,  and  therefore 
the  word  "  club  "  is  purely  English.' 
In  any  case,  the  English  are  not 
to  have  it  all  their  own  way  in  the 
matter  of  clubs,  as  if  other  nations, 
whether  of  antiquity  or  of  modern 
times,  knew  nothing  about  them. 
The  tendency  to  association  rests, 
as  we  have  already  had  occasion  to 
recognise,  upon  the  fact  of  identity 
or  of  likeness  of  taste  or  opinion  on 
the  part  of  the  persons  associated, 


with  a  synchronous  idea  of  unlike- 
ness  or  unsympathy  in  regard  to 
their  binding  principles  on  the  part 
of  the  persons  without  their  pale. 
W^herever  there  has  been  commu- 
nity subsisting  side  by  side  with 
indifference  or  antagonism,  there  has 
always  been  a  tendency  to  incorpo- 
ration. And  corporations,  whether 
ancient  or  modern,  are  in  their 
essence  clubs,  whether  they  do  or 
do  not  justify  their  claim  to  the 
title  by  the  equal  distribution  of 
expenses,  or  whether,  in  fact,  they 
have  or  have  not  expenses  at  all  to 
incur  or  to  defray.  Club,  indeed, 
in  this  sense,  is  not  a  name  derived 
from  a  necessity,  but  from  an  acci- 
dent of  organization.  The  esoterics 
of  Pythagoras,  the  mystics  of 
Eleusis,  were  virtually  clubbists,  as 
being  differenced  from  the  exoterics 
or  from  the  uninitiated.  Such  as 
these,  and  as  the  Essen  es  amongst 
the  Jews,  were  in  fact  the  philoso- 
phical or  religious  club-men  of 
antiquity.  Other  associations  for 
the  prosecution  of  morals,  or  of 
M/imorals,  as  the  case  might  be,  were 
well  enough  known  to  Greece ;  and, 
when  introduced  furtively  into  Kome, 
alarmed  the  virtue  of  the  senate. 

Clubbismhas  resulted  from  expa- 
triated nationality.  The  old  colonial 
Greek  would  cleave  to  his  fellow- 
Greek  as  against  the  barbarian 
whom  he  superciliously  excluded 
from  the  amenities  of  his  society. 
The  Roman  pro-consul  or  centurion 
would  unbend  with  his  fellow- 
Eoman  when  he  would  not  suffer 
the  intimate  or  equal  advances  of 
the  chain-mailed  Dacian  or  the 
Briton  of  the  meteoric  hair. 

Politics  have  been  a  club-bond  ; 
and  associations,  ages  before  our 
own  Carlton  or  the  French  Jaco- 
bins, had  been  formed  for  the  con- 
servation or  for  the  overthrow  of 
existing  governments. 

Science  had  its  clubs  dotted  here 
and  there  throughout  a  {scattered 
Hellas,  ages  before  our  own  Royal 
Society  sought  to  explain  the  reason 
why  a  living  fish  introduced  into  a 
vessel  brimful  of  water  would  not 
cause  the  water  to  overflow. 

Art  was  a  mystery,  and  a  basis  of 
association.  Caste  and  hereditary 
handicrafts  were  the  insignia  of  the 


104 


Aufcd'tc  ami  Gosxip  nbniU  Clnhn, 


clubbist  spirit,  ns  nowndays  arc  thu 
trades'  unions,  tlio  Kfrikes,  and  the 
lockouts  of  labour  and  tlio  em- 
ployers of  Lil)our.  There  is,  indeed, 
scarcely  any  end  which  two  men 
may  liavo  in  ctjnuuon  which  may 
not  give  rise  to  an  ass(K;iation  for 
the  purpose  of  accomplishing  that 
end,  whether  it  1)C  for  good  or  for 
evil ;  for  rovolutinn  or  for  consoli- 
dation ;  for  science  or  for  amuse- 
ment; for  gambling  or  for  plunder; 
or  even,  t<stibiis  the  Thugs  cmn  De 
Quincey,  for  the  fine  art  of  murder. 

But  chiefly  we  look  upon  the  club 
as  a  social  gathering  of  convivts;  of 
men  who,  whatever  be  the  pro- 
founder  purpose  for  which  they 
assemble  together,  agree  in  this, 
that  they  shall  be  comforted  with 
apples  and  stayed  with  fla^^ons  in 
congenial  society.  Eating  and  drink- 
ing are,  if  not  the  life  of  clubs,  a 
very  vi.-ible  sign  of  their  existence. 
The  spirit  of  ailhesion  is  in  the 
bowl  or  the  loving-cup;  the  soul  of 
co-partnery  is  in  the  cookery ;  the 
sentiment  of  confraternity  is  warmly 
cherished  at  the  extremity  of  an 
Havana ;  and  the  clouds  of  external 
difference  are  dissipated  along  with 
the  narcotic  incense  to  such  gentle 
winds  as  an  enlightened  theory  of 
ventilation  permits  to  play  around 
the  smoking-room. 

A  churchwarden,  whether  done 
in  flesh  and  blood  or,  less  fearfully 
and  wonderfully,  in  pipe-clay,  was, 
wo  have  reason  to  l)elicve,  l)cyond 
the  mrst  gorgeous  dreams  or  the 
most  magnificent  ideals  of  Plato. 
Yet  the  philosopher  enjoyed  his 
Symposium,  as  did  many  of  the  cul- 
tivated and  curious  Athenians  of 
his  own  and  of  after  times.  Wo 
have  a  ta.sto  of  the  quality  of  some 
of  these  meetings  in  the  '  Symposiac 
Questions' which  the  piety  of  Plu- 
tarch has  preserved  and  discussed. 
The  idea  of  gathering  for  the  joint 
refection  of  mind  and  ImkIv  ha« 
given  us  the  '  Dcipnosophists '  of 
Athenanis,  and  the  'Saturnalia'  of 
Macroliius.  Athens  had  its  clubs 
proper,  whore  each  man  sent  his 
proportion  of  the  feast,  and  brought 
his  proportion  of  the  intellectual 
entertainment.  Of  these,  the  club 
named  after  Hercules  is  the  ono 
which,  perhaps,  at  the  present  day 


is  the  l>est  remembered.  S|iaita 
was  clubbish  to  the  backbone  in  the 
idea  of  its  common  repasts,  where 
the  public  tables  were  spread  for 
messes  of  fifteen  each,  the  members 
of  which  were  elected  by  ballot. 
Wo  leave  the.»;e,  however,  to  their 
black  broth  and  their  laconisms, 
that  we  may  come  to  the  foaming 
tankard  and  the  wit-coiubat,  to  the 
sparkle  of  champn^ne  and  the  effer- 
vescence of  repartee.  , 

Perhaps  the  earliest  club  in  Eng- 
land of  which  we  have  any  traces 
was  one  of  which  Ocdeve,  and  pro- 
bably Chaucer,  were  members.  It 
was  flourishing  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  IV.,  and  was  called  'La 
Court  do  bone  Compagnie.'  It 
was  a  society  governed  by  its  duly 
appointed  ollicers,  and  amenable  to 
a  certain  coile  of  regulations.  '  This 
society  of  four  centuries  ami  a  half 
since  was  evidently  a  jovial  com- 
pany,' says  Mr.  Tiiiibs;  to  us  its 
meml>ers  arc  simply  empty  kittles, 
marines,  and  de;xd  nieu. 

Ben  Jonson,  who.«e  social  and 
affectionate  affinities  were,  to  do  him 
justice,  as  remarkable  as  his  con- 
vivial proclivities,  was  the  founder 
of  a  club  that  met  at  the  Devil 
tavern  near  Temple  Bar.  The  rare 
old  Ben  would  dcmbtlcss  be  magni- 
ficent in  the  midst  of  his  literary 
'sons,'  whose  privilege  it  wixs  to 
wait  reverently  for  his  hiccups  and 
his  flashes  of  wit  and  meriimect. 
For  the  moment  wo  prefer,  how- 
ever, to  think  of  him  as  a  member 
of  that  more  historical  which  met 
at  the  Mermaid,  in  Bread  Street, 
and  to  which  belonged  Raleigh, 
Shakespeare,  Ikauinont,  Fletcher, 
Donne,  and  others  of  only  less  cele- 
brity. But  it  was  years  after  this 
that  wo  make  acquaintance  with 
the  word  'club;'  for  formerly  the 
thing  had  gone  under  ditTcrent 
names,  according  to  the  dilVi  nint 
objects  proposed.  The  f/oms  had 
to  bfi  named  after  the  sjiecies  had 
grown  and  m>ilti])lied.  'Wo  now 
use  the  word  rlnhhi-, '  says  old 
John  Aubrey,  F.K.S.,  and  the  gos- 
siping recorder  of  '  Miscellanies,' 
'  for  a  sodality  in  a  taverno'— so- 
dality, in  this  case,  being,  ns  we 
opine,  the  Latin  for  a  '  free-and- 
easy.' 


Anecdotf  and  Gnssip  <thimt  Chihs. 


105 


So  early  as  1659,  when  Aubrey 
became  a  member  of  the  llcrta,  after 
due  balloting  and  admission,  we  iind 
that  politics  had  penetrated  fixr  into 
club-life;  and  it  is  not  wonderful 
that  we  should  find  Dryden  think- 
*  ing  it  necessary  to  ask  indignantly, 
during  the  patriarchal  government 
of  Charles  IL,  who  was  the  father  of 
(so  many  of)  his  people,  by  what  sanc- 
tion they  became  the  rallying  places 
of  the  Opposition.  'What  right,'  de- 
mands glorious  John, '  has  any  man 
to  meet  in  factious  clubs  to  vilify 
the  government?'  What  right,  in- 
deed! 

But  we  have  anticipated.  Before 
the  first  real  club  was  opened  nnder 
that  name,  a  society  of  wits  who 
met  at  the  Mermaid,  and  whom  we 
have  just  mentioned,  had  flourished 
and  sparkled  under  the  favour  or 
the  presidency  of  Shakespeare  and 
Ben  Joiison.  Who  would  not,  if  he 
could— conveniently,  that  is,  with- 
out sacrificing  his  privileges  as  a 
contemporary  of  telegraphs,  express 
trains,  and  'limited  liability  hotel 
and  finance  companies — have  given 
a  pretty  premium  to  have  been 
stowed  away  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  or  to  have  served  for  '  one 
night  only''  as  a  drawer  of  their 
strong  waters,  if  he  might  but  have 
listened  to  such  'wit-combats'  as 
Beaumont  celebrates  in  an  epistle  to 
the  'rare  Ben'  of  our  literature, 
and  as  Fuller  alludes  to  in  his 
'Worthies?'  '  Many  were  the  wit- 
combats,'  says  the  latter,  '  betwixt 
Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson,  which 
two  I  behold  (in  my  mind's  eye, 
Horatio!)  like  a  Spanish  great 
galleon  and  an  English  man-of- 
war  :  lilaster  Jonson,  like  the 
former,  was  built  far  higher  in 
learning;  solid,  but  slow  in  his 
performances.  Shakespeare,  with 
the  English  man-of-war,  lesser  in 
bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could 
turn  with  all  tides,  tack  about  and 
take  advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the 
quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention.' 
Beaumont  is  more  rapturous  a  de- 
Bcriber,  as  becomes  one  who  had 
personally  assisted  at  the  intellec- 
tual revels  to  which  he  refers.  One 
or  two  lines  of  the  following  quota- 
tion from  him  are  known  to  nearly 
everybody ;  the  whole  of  it  may  be 
rather  more  unfamiliar. 


'  Mcthlnks  tlm  little  wit  I  had  U  lust 
Since  1  saw  you;  fur  wit  is  llki-  u  rent 
II   111  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 
With  the  best  Kaniesters:  what  things  have  we 

seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !   heard  words  that  nave 

been 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame, 
A3  if  tliat  every  one  from  whence  thi  y  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  ji'st, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  f  ol  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life;  then  when  there  hath  been  thrown 
Wit  able  enough  to  Jii-tify  the  town 
For  three  days  past,  wit  that  ini};ht  warrant  be 
For  the  whole  city  to  tallc  foolislily 
Till  that  were  cancelled :  and  when  that  was  gone 
We  left  an  air  behind  us,  vvliicti  alone 
Was  .^ble  to  make  tlie  two  next  companice 
Right  witly;  though  but  downright  fools,  more 

wise.' 

Modern  scepticism  has  thrown 
much  doubt  on  the  long  current 
tradition  that  it  whs  sir  Walter 
Ealeigh  who  founded  the  Mermaid 
Club.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  re- 
ceive this  account  of  its  institution, 
by  faith ;  it  can  for  the  future  be 
received,  alas!  by  nothing  short  of 
credulity.  Gifford,  however,  who  is 
not  generally  omnivorous  in  his 
beliefs,  speaks  of  the  Merm.aid  as 
though  he  saw  no  reason  to  chal- 
lenge the  popular  sentiment  as  to 
Sir  Walter  being  its  father.  In 
addition  to  this,  he  endorses  the 
commonly  received  notion  of  the 
Mermaid  having  stood  in  Friiiay 
Street,  Cheapside;  whilst  it  is  said 
by  Ben  Jonson  himself,  who  must 
have  been  well  informed  on  the  sub- 
ject, at  least  ■when  he  entered  the 
tavern,  to  have  been  in  Bread  Street. 
But  the  difference  is  reconciled  when 
we  have  an  opportune  explanation 
that  the  Mermaid  in  Bread  Street, 
the  Mermaid  in  Friday  Street,  and 
the  Mermaid  in  Cheapside,  were  all 
one  and  the  same  Mermaid  with  dif- 
fei'ent  outlets  and  approaches.  The 
house  was  consumed  in  the  great 
fire  of  1666. 

Now  for  Gifford.  *  About  this 
time  (1603),'  he  says,  'Jonson  pro- 
bably began  to  acquire  that  turn  for 
conviviality  for  which  he  was  after- 
wards noted.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
previous  to  his  unfortunate  engage- 
ment with  the  wretched  Cobham 
and  others,  had  instituted  a  meeting 
of  hxtu.r  eaprifs  at  the  Mermaid,  a 
celebrated  tavern  in  Friday  Street. 
Of  this  club,  which  combined  more 
talent  and  genius  than  ever  met 


106 


Auec<1ote  and  Gcssij)  nbuut  Ci'uus. 


ti^^uther  before  or  siaco,  our  author 
was  a  mem  Iter  ;  and  here  for  many 
years  ho  regularly  repaircl,  with 
Shakespeare,  IJeaumont,  Fletclier, 
JScKleu,  Cotton,  Carew,  Martin, 
Donne,  and  many  others,  whose 
names,  even  at  tliis  distant  period, 
call  up  a  mingled  feeling  of  reve- 
rence ami  respect.' 

Simon  Wadloe,  the  host  of  the 
])evil  Ta\-eru,  which  stool  near 
Temj)le  Har,  and  had  for  a  sign  St. 
Duustan  pulling  the  devil  by  the 
nose,  seems  to  have  been  a  magnate 
of  good  fellows,  if,  that  i-;,  the  com- 
plimentary rank  of  Duko  Wadloe, 
and  Simon  the  King,  conferred  upon 
him  by  15en  Jimsou,  ought  to  Im 
taken  as  the  tribute  due  to  honest 
worth.  His  liquor,  we  fear,  was  not 
i-o  princely  as  his  character;  for  Ben 
declares  that  he  wrote  his  comedy 
'  The  Devil  i.s  an  Asse,'  when  he  and 
his  sons  'drank  bad  wine  at  the 
Devil.'  Was  there  a  punnmg  charge 
in  the  title  of  this  play  against  tie 
commercial  imprudence  of  acquiring 
a  reputation  for  the  t-aleof  uudrink- 
a'ile  fluids?  For  tlie  Apollo  Club, 
which  met  here,  lien  Jouson  drew 
up  his  celebrated  '  Leges  Convi- 
viales,'  in  which  he  was  disinte- 
rested enough  to  recommend  tem- 
l)crance  and  to  eschew  tiie  utterance 
of  '  iusipida  poemata.'  Above  the 
door  of  the  club-room  was  placed  a 
bust  of  Apf)llo,  and  nuderueath  the 
bust  were  inscribed  the  folio ^ving 
line-i  of  '  Welcome,'  which  were 
ifier  his  death  authenticated  by  the 
iuhcription,  iMjrrowei  from  his  tomb 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  '  0  liare 
JJen  Jonson.' 

•  \V-lc()iiie  all,  who  lead  or  follow, 
■|  1)  till-  firaclc  of  Aixjllo.— 
II  re  111-  KiK-aks  out  of  lii.s  poltle, 
Oi  till-  IripoM,  Ills  lower  boiilc; 
All  hJH  iiiimwits  are  divine, 
I  I  tub  ilai'irdotli  (liiw  in  wine. 
ll.iiiK  up  all  llie  poor  lio|)-<lrliikcra, 
Cile-  olil  SIni,  the  kill);  of  hkliikcru; 
He  that  half  of  life  abuses, 
Tliut  nits  wnteriiiK  will)  tlir  Mii»e<, 
'riionc  dull  girls  no  g<;<id  can  mean  ua; 
Wine  it  i»  llie  milk  of  Vciiuii, 
And  Uie  poil'6  bori<e  accouiilcil : 
riv  ii.  and  you  all  are  uiounU'd. 
'  I'lH  true,  the  l'b(jebeiiih  liquor 
Cbi'iTi'  llic  brain,  makes  wit  tin-  qiil<kor, 
I'ays  all  debU,  cures  all  dinejsrs, 
Ami  at  once  three  goiiscs  pli-awyi. 
We.conic  all,  wlio  Irad  or  (uUoW, 
To  tlic  Oracle  "J  Apollo.' 


Hare  Ben  was  king  hero,  anl 
patriarch;  looked  up  to  by  his 
surrounijing  'sons'  now  as  'the 
boon  Uelphic  god '  himself,  now  as 
a,  llnint)!  to  that  deity.  Ladies  were 
allowed  to  attend  the  meetings  ot 
the  club;  but  whether  they  exer-  # 
cised  any  suffrage  there  in  the  shape 
of  open  vote  or  ballot,  we  know  not. 
We  would  respectfully  relegate  the 
tisk  of  discovery  to  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill, 
whom  we  fancy  wo  have  probably  k 

helped  to  a  new  and  valuable  argu-  1 

mentfor  his  next  ailvocacyoffem.de 
enfranchisement.  If  a  woman  could 
vote  at  the  Devil,  why  not  at  the 
less  important  and  less  brilliant 
club  of  St  Stephen,  with  whom  she 
would  naturally  have  a  more  fami- 
liar spirit. 

Pocu-  Ben,  canonized  at  the  Devil, 
was  sadly  shorn  of  his  splendour  at 
Hawlhornden,  whither  ho  had  gone  . 
on  foot,  and  where  ho  spent  three 
weeks  with  Drumnnmd,  lo  whom 
he  detailed  those  maudlin  exagge- 
rations of  the  miserable  circum- 
stances of  Spenser's  death,  which 
every  i)erson  of  sensibility  tries  hard 
not  to  believe.  Drummond  has  re- 
corded his  impressions  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Ben  Jonson ;  in  which  it 
will  be  seen  that  he  darkly  alludes 
to  the  hitter's  change  of  religion. 
Whilst  under  a  cloud — in  ])rison,  in 
fact,  for  the  murder  of  an  actor,  of 
which  he  was  acquitted- -Ben  had 
been  converted  to  the  Uoman  Catho- 
lic faith  by  a  priest  of  that  persua- 
sion who  visite<i  liim.  Witii  his  en- 
largement came  his  recantation  ; 
and  it  is  certified,  as  an  evidence  of 
his  sincerity,  that  upon  his  recon- 
ciliation with  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, he  drained  the  sacrament^il 
cup  in  liis  satisfaction  at  finding 
himself  again  a  member  of  a  reli- 
gious community  that  had  the  good 
taste  to  celebrate  the  communion  in 
both  kinds.  His  spiritual  life  was 
too  robust  to  1)0  Kui)pi)rted  on  a 
wafer.  'Ho  is  a  great  lover  and 
praiser  of  himself,'  sa.vs  Drummond ; 
'acoutemner  and  scorner  of  others  ; 
given  ratiur  to  lose  a  friend  than  a 
jest ;  jealous  of  every  word  and  actum 
of  tlidse  about  liim,  ts]K!ciaIly  afur 
drink,  which  is  one  of  the  eleineiitH 
in  which  he  livcth  ;  a  ilis.sembler  of 
ill  parts  whicli  ivign  in  him;  a 
brugger  of  some  gojd  thing  that  ho 


Anecdote  and  (Jot-sip  ahaut  C^uhs 


107 


wanteth  ;  thinking  nothing  well  but 
what  cither  he  hiuisclf  or  some  of 
his  friends  and  coimtrymen  liatli 
said  or  done ;  ho  is  passionately 
kind  and  angry ;  careless  either  to 
gain  or  keep;  vindictive,  but,  if 
well  answered,  at  himself;  for  any 
religion,  as  being  versed  in  both; 
interpreteth  best  suyings  and  deeds 
often  tc  the  worst ;  oppressed  with 
fantasy,  which  hath  ever  mastered 
his  reason,  a  general  disease  in 
many  poets.' 

Thomas  Eandolph  was  one  of  the 
adopted  sous  of  Ben  Jonson.  He 
was  born  at  Nuneham,  near  Daven- 
try,  in  Northamptonshire,  and  edu- 
cated at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
He  was  the  author  of  ' The  Muses 
Looking  Glass,'  'The  Jealous 
Lovers,'  of  a  'Divine  Pastorall 
Egloque,'  which  is  extant  in  a  MS. 
of  the  Harleian  collection,  where  it 
forms  one  of  a  '  Handful  of  Celestiall 
Flowers'  How  natural  it  is  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  its  pas- 
toral personce  argue  the  question  of 
predestination  ;  a  mistake  into  which 
it  was  the  vice  of  his  age  to  fall,  and 
into  which  Spenser  had  previously 
fallen,  when  in  his  '  Shepherd's 
Calendar'  (1579)  he  made  Colin 
Clout  and  his  fellows  of  the  crook 
enter  upon  questions  as  abstruse 
and  learned  as  those  which  occujiied 
the  council  of  Milton's  Pandemo- 
nium. Randolph  impaired  his  fine 
talents  by  the  indulgence  of  intem- 
perate habits,  and  precipitated  the 
death  which  cut  short  his  promise 
at  the  age  of  twenty-nine.  The  in- 
troduction of  Randolph  to  Jonson, 
and  their  assumption  of  a  correla- 
tive sonship  and  paternity,  is  one  of 
the  salient  traditions  of  the  Apollo 
Club.  Randolph  had  remained  suf- 
ficiently long  in  London  without 
means,  to  have  held  really  as  well 
as  poetically  a  *  Parley  with  his 
Empty  Purse.'  This  was  a  poem 
■which  Jonson  had  presumably  seen 
and  admired.  Randolph,  indigent 
yet  curious  after  literary  celebrities, 
determined  to  feast  his  eyes  with  a 
sight  of  London.  Accordingly,  at 
a  fitting  moment  he  repaired  to  the 
Devil ;  but  being  unknown,  and 
aliashed  by  his  own  conscious  want 
of  money,  he  ventured  no  further 
than  to  peep  into  the  room  where 


a  small  company  of  choice  spirits 
were  assembled,  Joiison  being  one. 
Ben,  catching  sight,  of  the  '  scholar's 
threadbare  habit,'  called  out,  'John 
Bopeep,  come  in,'  which  Randolj)h 
did  without  further  invitation.  Im- 
mediately the  comj)auy  began  to 
make  rhymes  upon  the  meanness  of 
his  clothes,  ordering  in,  at  the  same 
time,  a  modfcum  of  sack  to  kee]) 
their  wit  from  rusting.  This  was  a 
challenge  to  Randolph,  who  re- 
turned the  compliment  in  character 
by  thus  addressing  the  company, 
four  in  number: — 

'J,  John  Bopeep,  to  you  four  sheep. 

With  each  one  his  good  fleece, 
If  that  you  are  willing,  to  give  me  five  shilling, 
'I'is  fifteen  pence  a-plece.' 

'  By  J — ,'  and  Jonson  here  swore 
an  oath  which  is  now  almost  the 
monopoly  of  Irishmen — '  I  believe 
this  is  my  son  Randolph.'  The 
extemporised  affiliation  was  con- 
firmed; and  Randolph  was  ever 
after  one  of  the  adopted  *  boys'  of 
father  Ben 

The  Rota,  which  we  have  already 
named  as  counting  Aubrey  on  its 
roll  of  early  members,  was  instituted 
in  the  year  1659.  It  was  a  repub- 
lican debating  club,  and  used  for 
the  dissemination  of  republican 
principles.  It  met  in  New  Palace 
Yard,  Westminster ;  and  derived 
its  name  from  a  plan  proposed  to 
the  House  of  Commons,  by  Henry 
Nevil,  one  of  the  members  of  the 
Rota,  and  which  it  was  the  design 
of  the  club  to  promote,  that  a  third 
part  of  the  national  representatives 
should  rote  out  by  ballot  every 
year,  and  be  incapable  of  re-election 
for  three  years  to  come.  Round 
the  table  '  in  a  room,'  Aubrey  tells 
us,  '  filled  every  evening  as  full  as 
it  could  be  crammed,'  sat  Henry 
Nevil  aforesaid,  Milton,  Marvell, 
Charles  Wolseley,  John  Wildman, 
Cjriac  Skinner,  Dr.  (afterwards  Sir 
William)  Petty,  Harrington,  and 
their  friends,  discussing  ideal  con- 
stitutions and  administrations.  The 
principal  spouter  or  lecturer  at  this 
club  was  Harrington,  who  gave  fre- 
quent prelections  here  on  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  commonwealth  and  the 
ballot.  This  was  the  James  Har- 
rington who  wrote  an  Utopian 
Aristocratico- Republican  work  called 


108 


Anecdote  and  Gomip  nhnut  Clvht. 


'Oceana,'  published  in  1656;  and 
wlio  ujanau'tvl  to  win  ^Irs.  Cliiy- 
pole's  ai^fciit  to  procure  tlio  privik'}j;e 
of  dedicating  tlio  juTfonnanco  to 
the  Protector,  her  father;  whoso 
goveriiiucnt,  uevcrtlielcf^R,  was  as- 
sailed in  it  OS  '  ttio  violent  admi- 
nistration of  the  Protector,  by  hi3 
bashaws,  infeudants,  ,  or  majors- 
general.'  Harrington  was  a  repulv 
iican,  but  no  leveller,  and  held 
firmly  by  tlio  inherent  and  exclusive 
abilities  of  gentle  blood  io  lend  and 
to  command  successfully.  Hume, 
who  ])ronounced  the  '  Oceana,'  al- 
though it  be  the  model  of  a  perfect 
republic,  the  mo-st  rational  of  all 
f-imilar  productions,  further  observes 
that  '  it  was  well  adapted  to  that  . 
age,  when  the  plans  of  imaginary 
republics  were  the  daily  subjects  of 
debate  and  conversation ;  and  even 
in  our  time  it  is  justly  admired  as  a 
work  of  genius  and  invention.'  It 
was,  we  may  remark  in  passing, 
against  this  '  Pleathenish  Conmion- 
wcalth '  of  Iliirrington,  that  Richard 
Baxter  published  his  '  Holy  Com- 
monwealth,' intended  to  assert  the 
superiority  of  a  monarcliy  over 
either  an  aristocracy  or  a  democracy. 
Tho  Jvota,  of  which  wo  have  said 
that  Harrington  was  the  Mcrcurius, 
or  chief  pptaker,  was  broken  up 
after  the  Pestoration.  A  reference 
to  its  members  and  their  piirsuifs 
survives  in  the  third  Canto  of  tho 
Second  Part  of  Butler's  '  Ilu'dibras,' 
the  argument  of  which  sets  forth 
that 

•  The  Iviilght,  with  various  duubts  posscst, 
To  will  the  lady  Hues  In  quest 
OfSicIriiiihcl  Uic  Uo\v-cruclan, 
To  know  the  destinies'  re»(ilu'ion.' 

Siilrophel   is    described   by   Butler 
as  being — 

'  IIS  full  of  tricks 
As  Rota-men  of  politics.' 

It  has  been  jtlea.'^antly  but  rather 
illilieraliy  remarked  that  tho  secoutl 
Charles  was  said  to  havo  died  a 
papist  because  he  had  no  religion  at 
all  during  his  life.  Wlien  such  a 
king  had  tieen  brought  bick  to  take 
the  place  of  a  '  puritanical  protec- 
torate,' and  especially  when  hu  had 
placed  the  country  at  the  feet  of 
France  and  invited  insult  and  injury 
from  Holland,  it  was  not  wonderful 
that  loyalty   and    independence   of 


personal  and  national  feeling  should 
1)0  at  war.  Nor  was  it  wonderful 
that  men  of  opposite  parties,  wlien 
tiicy  met  together  to  discuss  their 
bottle  and  their  pipe,  shouM  fall 
out  with  rather  uncivil  dudgeon, 
aird  make  tlit'iiiselves  mutually  dis- 
agreeable and  mutually  niicomfort- 
able.  Society,  therefore,  if  it  would 
havo  any  unanimity  or  peace  in  its 
meetings,  must  have,  amongst  other 
conditions,  and  l)eyoiul  other  con- 
ditinu",  a  like  political  shibboleth. 
The  vehemence  of  religiou.«  and 
political  partisanship  coudiined  with 
the  introduction  of  cotTee-houses  to 
originate  and  to  multiply  the  forma^ 
tion  of  clubs  whose  members  might 
with  security  discuss  opinions  about 
which  they  were  in  the  main  ima- 
niraous,  or  about  which,  being  una- 
nimous, they  could  atTord  to  l)e 
silent  at  the  same  time  that  they 
liad  no  trepidation  at  the  thought 
of  their  accitlental  introduction. 

It  was  during  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.  that  men  left  such  open  ga- 
therings as  were  atTorded  at  tho 
'  Grecian,'  a  coffec-liouse  which,  in 
1665,  was  kept  in  Uevcrcux  Court, 
Strand,  by  a  Hellenic  gentleman, 
naincfl  Constantino ;  '  Will's,'  which 
Di'vden  a  few  years  later  made  illus- 
trious by  his  wit  and  critical 
acumen  ;  '  Garrawny's,'  of  Exchange 
Alley.  It  was,  we  say,  during  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.  that  men  began 
to  find  it  convenient  to  forsake  the 
open  gathering-;  of  such  establish- 
ments as  the  above,  and  to  betake 
themselves  with  birds  of  their  owti 
feather  to  separate  houses.  Poli- 
tical opinions  dictated  the  several 
places  to  which  gentlemen  resorted 
for  their  refreshments  ;  so  that  pre- 
sently there  came  to  be  recognised 
and  regular  Whig  and  Tory  coffeo- 
house.s.  In  the  time  of  Queen  Anne, 
tho  '  Cocoa-Tree '  in  St.  .Faiues's 
Street  was  reserved  for  the  .Ja''obites ; 
while  Whigs  alone  Ireiiuented  tho 
'  St.  James's'  in  the  hame  street. 
The  club  politician  of  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  had,  however,  learned 
to  concern  himself  with  smaller 
matters  than  his  jiredecessor  f)f  tho 
Commonwealth,  tlie  Prf)tcctoiMte,  or 
the  i;e.storation.  Whilst  the  latter 
had  In-en  ))!()tting  to  conij)ass  a 
revolution,  the  subversion  of  a  dv- 


Anecdote  and  Gutsip  about  Cluhs, 


109 


nasty,  or  the  overthrow  of  an  ex- 
isting government,  the  former  was 
content  to  intrigue  for  th'^  downfall 
of  a  ministry  or  for  the  disgrace  of 
a  favourite. 

Tlie  '  Ooiobcr  Club,'  named  from 
the  paculiar  tipple— October  ale — 
whicii  its  patrons  most  affected,  was 
one  of  the  most  uncompromising  of 
Tory  associations.  It  numbered 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  members, 
country  gentlemen  and  county  re- 
presentatives, who  drank  their  en- 
thusiastic toasts,  sometimes  to  the 
king  over  the  water,  and  at  others 
to  ])r.  Siicheverell  and  the  Church 
of  England.  Tire  meetings  of  the 
October  Club  took  place  at  the 
Bell,  in  King  Street,  Westminster, 
where  the  fiercest  Jacobite  of  them 
all  tolerated  a  portrait  of  Queen 
Anne,  by  Dahl,  which  hmig  in  the 
club-room.  They  did  not  under- 
stand temporising,  and  could  not 
brook  any  processes  of  political  ex- 
pediency. Tiiey  found  fault  with 
the  Harloian  administration,  which 
took  office  in  1710,  because  its 
members  treated  with  some  mode- 
ration their  rivals,  the  Whigs,  whom 
the  Octobers  would  have  impeached 
without  reserve  or  exception.  '  We 
are  plagued  here,'  sajs  Swift,  in  a 
letter  to  Stella,  February  10,  1710- 
II,  'with  an  October  Club;  that 
is,  a  set  of  above  a  hundred  par- 
liament men  of  the  country,  who 
drink  October  beer  at  home,  and 
meet  every  evening  at  a  tavern  near 
the  Parliament,  to  consult  about 
affairs,  and  to  drive  things  on  to 
extremes  against  the  Whigs,  to  call 
the  old  ministry  to  accf)unt,  and  get 
off  five  or  six  heads.'  It  was  to 
cool  the  noble  rage  of  these  rustic 
legislators  that  Swift  wrote  his 
skilful,  judicious,  and  successful 
'  Advice  humbly  offered  to  the  Mem- 
bers of  the  October  Club.' 

Even  at  its  fiercest,  the  October 
had  been  too  slow  for  some  of  its 
choicer  spirits,  who,  seceding  fi'om 
the  original  society,  formed  the 
March  Club,  which  kept  the  vestal 
fires  of  its  altar  in  an  intenser  and 
morfe  constant  flame. 

Other  clubs  with  which  Swift  was 
closely  identified  were  the  Saturday, 
the  Brothers,  and  the  Scriblerus. 
'  I  dined/  he  says,  WTiting  to  Stella 


in  the  year  17 13,  '  with  Lord  Trea- 
surer, and  shall  again  to-morrow, 
which  is  his  day,  when  all  the 
ministers  dine  'with  him.  He  calls 
it  whipping  day.  It  is  always  on 
Saturday;  and  we  do,  indied,  rally 
him  about  his  faults  on  that  day. 
I  was  of  the  original  club,  when 
only  poor  Lord  Rivers,  Lord 
Keeper,  and  Lord  Bolingbroke 
came ;  but  now  Ormond,  Anglesey, 
Lord  Stewart,  Dartoiouth,  and  other 
rabble  intrude,  and  I  scold  at  it : 
but  now  they  pretend  as  good  a 
title  as  I;  and,  indeed,  many  Sa- 
turdays I  am  not  there.  The  com- 
pany being  too  many,  I  don't  love 
it.'  It  is  not  every  Irish  dean  who 
could  afford  or  assume  to  be  so 
exclusive. 

Swift  was  in  his  time  a  very  im- 
portant and  influential  political 
character.  He  knew  much  of  the 
club-life  of  England  of  his  day,  and 
had  studied  it  with  minute  atten- 
tion. A  few  years  before  the  time 
at  which  he  wrote  the  letter  to 
Stella  from  which  we  last  quoted, 
he  had  made  a  singular  tJebiet  at 
Button's  coffee-house,  Avhilst  yet  his 
literary  reputation  was  restricted, 
and  his  intimacy  with  the  wits  of 
the  metropolis  was  limited  to  Con- 
greve  and  a  few  others  with  whom 
he  had  contracted  an  acquaintance 
at  Sir  Wiliam  Temple's.  Button's 
was  at  this  time  a  noted  rendez- 
vous of  the  wits,  who  for  several 
successive  days  observed  a  strange 
clergyman  come  into  the  coffee- 
house, who  seemed  utterly  unac- 
quainted with  any  of  those  by  whom 
it  was  frequented.  It  was  his  prac- 
tice to  lay  his  hat  down  on  a  table, 
and  walk  to  and  fro  at  a  good  pace 
for  half  an  hour  or  an  hour,  without 
speaking  to  any  mortal,  or  seeming 
to  attend  in  the  least  to  anything 
that  was  going  forward.  He  would 
then  take  up  his  hat,  pay  his  money 
at  the  bar,  and  walk  away  without 
opening  his  lips.  After  having  ob- 
served his  singular  behaviour  for 
some  time,  they  concluded  him  to 
be  out  of  his  senses,  and  accordingly 
distinguished  him  by  the  appella- 
tion of  the  '  mad  parson.'  They 
now  became  more  attentive  than 
ever  to  his  motions  ;  and  one  even- 
ing, v/hile  they  were  observing  him. 


110 


Avrrdotf  anii  Gofvy  nboni  Cinbu. 


tliey  saw  liim  coi^t  liis  cyo.«  several 
times  oil  ii  peiitliiiian  in  lK)ot.s,  who 
PceiiK'd  to  be  just  eonie  from  tlio 
eotintry.aml  at  last  advance  towards 
liiiii,  as  if  to  address  him.  All 
Wire  eaper  to  liear  wliat  the  diiiiib 
mad  divine  liad  to  say,  and  imrae- 
diatily  (piitted  tlieir  seats  to  pet 
near  liim.  Goinp  np  to  the  country 
frentleman,  Swift,  in  a  very  alirupt 
manner,  and  witliout  any  previous 
salute,  ash.d  In'm:  '  Pray,  sir,  do 
you  rememlier  any  good  weather  in 
the  world?'  The  oonutry  gentleman, 
after  staring  a  little  at  the  singu- 
larity o*"  liis  manners  and  the  oddity 
of  the  question,  replied :  '  Yes,  sir, 
I  thank  God,  I  remember  a  great 
deal  of  good  weather  in  my  time.' 
'  That  is  more/  returned  Swift, 
'  than  T  enn  say  ;  I  never  rememlwr 
any  weatlicr  that  was  not  too  cold 
or  too  hot,  too  wet  or  too  dry;  but 
liowever  God  Almighty  contrives  it, 
at  the  end  of  the  year,  'tis  all  very 
well.'  Thus  having  said,  the  mad 
divine  resumed  his  hat,  and  speak- 
ing no  further  word  and  taking  no 
further  notice  of  any  one,  quitted 
the  coffee-house,  leaving  the  staring 
spectators  more  confirmed  than 
ever  in  their  opinion  of  his  insanity. 
On  their  part,  it  was  unhappily  an 
error  only  of  time.  Towards  the 
close  of  his  life,  Swift  was  subject 
to  fits  of  giddiness,  which  finally 
developed  into  a  chronic  state  of 
fitfully  illumed  lunacy.  It  was  in 
1736,  whilst  occupied  with  a  poem 
entitled  '  A  Character,  Panegjric, 
and  Description  of  the  Legion  Club,' 
a  bitter  vituperative  satire,  (>f  which 
tlie  vigour  and  the  indelicacy  are 
l)oth  up  to  tlie  standard  of  liabcluis, 
that  he  was  s<ized  with  an  attack 
so  severe  as  to  incapacitate  him  ever 
attf  r  from  any  work  that  demanded 
continuous  thouglit  or  Ial>our. 

Hut  we  return  to  the  year  1713, 
when  Swift  drew  u]>  the  rules  of 
the  Brothers'  Cluli,  which  met  every 
Thursday,  and  wliich  had  for  its 
object  '  to  advance  conversation  and 
friendship,  and  to  reward  learning 
without  interest  or  recommcndafion. 
We  take  in.'  he  says,  '  none  but 
men  of  wit,  or  men  of  interest ;  and 
if  we  go  on  as  wc  b(g:in.  no  other 
club  in  that  town  will  U;  worth 
talking  of.'    Originally  tlic  I'.rofhcrs 


met  at  the  Tliatched  House  Tavern, 
in  St.  James's  Street;  from  wliich, 
for  purposes  of  economy,  they  mi- 
grated to  the  Star  ami  (iarter,  in 
Tall  Jlall.  It  was  (me  of  the  Bro- 
thers, 'Duke'  Disney  —  'a  fellow 
of  abundance  of  humour,  an  old 
battered  rake,  but  very  lionest ;  not 
an  old  man,  hut  an  old  rake' — who 
'  said  of  .lenny  Kingdown,  the  maid 
of  honour,  who  is  a  little  old,  that 
since  she  could  not  get  a  liusband, 
tlie  queen  should  give  her  a  brevet 
to  act  as  a  married  woman.' 

The  Drotliers  had  a  political  pur- 
pose, which  having  served,  it  was 
broken  up;  its  dissolution  having 
been  precipitated  through  the  ani- 
mosity of  Oxford  and  i5olingbro\e. 
In  1 7 14,  Swift  was  Imsy  in  organiz- 
ing the  Scriblerus  Club,  whicli  was 
rather  literary  than  political.  Of 
this  society,  Oxford  and  Boling- 
broke,  Arbuthnot,  Pope,  and  Gay, 
were  memlnrs.  The  name  of  j\hir- 
tin  Scriblerus  owed  it.self  to  a  pun 
of  Lord  Oxford's  upon  the  patro- 
nymic of  Swift,  the  common  or 
generic  term  for  both  these  birds 
being  swallow.  The  transactions  of 
this  society  liavo  been  partly  pre- 
served in  '  P.  P.,  Clerk  of  tin;  Parish,' 
a  satire  upon  Burnet's  '  History  of 
his  own  Time,'  and  partly  in  the 
'  Travels  of  Lemuel  Gulliver.' 

Mr.  Timbs,  in  liis  recent  work  on 
the  '  Club  Life  of  London,'  has  so 
conveniently  epitomized  a  certain 
tract,  reprinted  in  the  Haileian 
^liscellany,  whicli  was  the  first  to 
introduce  a  general  knowledge,  true 
or  false,  of  the  Calves'  Head  Club, 
'  in  ridicule  of  the  memory  of 
Charles  I.,'  that  we  are  inclined  to 
transcrilK)  liis  account  of  it.  The 
tract  alluded  to  is  entitled  '  Tho 
Secret  History  of  the  Calves'  Head 
Club;  or  the  Republican  unmasked. 
Wherein  is  fully  shown  the  Religion 
of  the  Calves'  Hea<l  ileroes  in  their 
Anniversary  Thanksgiving  Songs 
on  tlie  30th  of  .lanuary,  ly  fliera 
called  Anthems,  for  the  years  1693, 
1694,  1695,  1696,  1697,  now  pub- 
lislied  to  demon.strato  the  restless, 
implacable  spirit  of  a  certain  party 
amongst  us  (1703),  who  are  never 
to  Iw!  satisfied  until  tlie  ))resent 
KsfablishuK  lit  in  Church  and  State 
is  subverted.' 


Anecdote  ami  ffomp  nhou!  Chihs, 


Jll 


'  The  author  of  this  "  Secret  His- 
tory," supposed  to  bo  Ned  Ward, 
attributed  the  origin  of  the  Club  to 
Milton,  and  some  other  friends  of 
tlie  Commonwealth,  in  opposition 
to  Bisliop  Nixon,  Dr.  Sanderson,  and 
others,  who  met  privately  every 
30th  of  January,  and  compiled  a 
private  form  of  service  for  the  day, 
not  very  different  from  that  long 
nsed.  "  After  the  Restoration,"  says 
the  writer,  "  the  eyes  of  the  govern- 
ment being  upon  the  whole  party, 
they  were  obliged  to  meet  with  a 
great  deal  of  precaution  ;  but  in 
the  reign  of  King  William,  they 
met  almost  in  a  public  manner  ap- 
prehending no  danger.*'  The  writer 
further  tells  us,  he  was  informed 
that  it  was  kept  in  no  fixed  house, 
but  that  they  moved  as  they  thought 
convenient.  The  place  where  they 
met  wdien  his  informant  was  with 
tiiera  was  in  a  blind  alley  near 
Moorfields,  where  an  axe  hung  up 
in  the  club-room,  and  was  reve- 
renced as  a  principal  symbol  in  this 
diabolical  sacrament.  Their  bill  of 
fare  was  a  large  dish  of  calves' 
heads,  dressed  several  ways,  by 
which  they  represented  the  king 
and  his  friends  who  had  suffered  in 
his  cause ;  a  large  pike,  with  a 
small  one  in  his  mouth,  as  an  em- 
blem of  tyranny ;  a  large  cod's  head, 
by  which  they  intended  to  repre- 
sent the  per.'^on  of  the  king  singly  ; 
a  boar's  head  with  an  apple  in  its 
mouth,  to  represent  the  king  by 
this  as  bestial,  as  by  their  other 
hieroglyphics  they  had  done  foolish 
and  tyrannical.  After  the  repast 
was  over  one  of  their  elders  pre- 
sented an  "  Icon  Basilike,"  which 
was  with  great  solemnity  burnt 
upon  the  table,  wdiilst  the  other 
anthems  were  singing.  After  this, 
another  produced  Milton's  "  I)e- 
fensioPopuli  Anglicani,"  upon  which 
all  laid  their  hands,  and  made  a 
protestation  in  form  of  an  oath  for- 
ever to  stand  by  and  maintain  the 
same.  The  company  only  consisted 
of  Independents  and  Anabaptists; 
and  the  famous  Jeremy  White,  for- 
merly chaplain  to  Oliver  Cromwell, 
who  no  doubt  came  to  sanctify  with 
his  pious  exhortations  the  ribaldry 
of  the  day,  said  grace.  After  the 
table-cloth  was  removed,  the  anni- 


versary anthem,  as  they  impiously 
called  it,  was  sung  and  a  calf's  skull 
filled  with  wine,  or  other  li<|u<)r; 
and  then  a  brimmer  went  about  to 
the  pious  memoiy  of  those  wortl>y 
patriots  who  had  killed  the  tyrant 
and  relieved  their  country  from  hi.s 
arbitrary  sway ;  and  lastly,  a  col- 
lection was  made  for  the  mercenary 
pcribhler,  to  which  every  man  con- 
tributed according  to  his  zeal  for 
the  cause  and  ability  of  his  purse. 

'  The  tract  pa'sed,  with  many 
augmentations  as  valueless  as  the 
original  trash,  tlirough  no  less  than 
nine  editions,  the  last  dated  1716. 
Indeed,  it  would  appear  to  be  a 
literary  fraud,  to  keep  alive  the 
calumny.  All  the  evidence  pro- 
duced concerning  the  meetings  is 
from  hearsay;  the  writer  of  the 
"  Secret  History,"  had  never  himself 
been  present  at  the  Club ;  and  his 
friend  from  whom  he  professes  to 
have  received  his  information, 
though  a  Wh'g,  had  no  personal 
knowledge  of  the  Club.  The  slan- 
derous rumour  about  Milton  having 
to  do  with  the  institution  of  the 
Club  may  be  passed  over  as  un- 
worthy of  notice,  this  untrustworthy 
tract  being  the  only  authority  for  it. 
Lowndes  says,  "  This  miserable  tract 
had  been  attributed  to  the  author 
of  '  Hudibras  ;'  but  it  is  altogether 
unworthy  of  him."  ' 

The  same  writer  proceeds :  '  Ob- 
servances, insulting  to  the  memory 
of  Charles  I.,  were  not  altogether 
unknown.  Hearne  tells  us  that  on 
the  30th  of  January,  1706-7,  some 
young  men  in  All  Souls'  College, 
Oxford,  dined  together  at  twelve 
o'clock,  and  amused  themselves 
with  ciitting  off  the  heads  of  a 
number  of  woodcocks,  "  in  con- 
tempt of  the  memory  of  the  blessed 
martyr."  They  tried  to  get  calves' 
heads,  but  the  cook  refused  to  dress 
them. 

'  Some  thirty  years  after,  there 
occurred  a  scene  which  seems  to 
give  colour  to  the  truth  of  the 
•  "  Secret  History."  On  January  30th, 
1735,  "  Some  young  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  met  at  a  tavern  in  Suftblk 
Street,  called  themselves  ttio  Calves' 
Head  Club,  dressed  up  a  calfs  head 
in  a  napkin,  and  after  some  hurra*, 
threw  it  into  a  bonfire,  and  dipped 


^    Jj^i^  ,\ 


'^^^ 


.^J'e"^ 


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^>  -  l-tV-v         it 


'^^' 


m. 


\\  ^ 


civ 


,f, 


.'I'W/'M^l 


^^ 


I 


)^'  -«i\ 


■  ^  -^p^l 


^^,C  ■<#■  ■■^^.ii-  '^/ilr  yiM' 


i^  ,•■ 


Drawn  liv  lliin-nci-  .iimI  A'l'l^iiil"'  <  liiMi.ii  ) 

ST.    VALENTINE'S    DAY. 


[Sue  thi-  Skrich. 


113 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 


I 


HAVE  long  devoted  myself  to 
that  kind  of  observation  which 

'  with  extensive  view, 
Surveys  mankind  from  China  to  Peru.' 


Of  course  it  has  fallen  to  me,  in 
the  operation,  to  remark  many  an 
anxious  toil  and  eager  strife,  as  Dr. 
Johnson  has  done  before  me— many 
a  passion  of  hope  and  fear,  of  desire 
and  hate,  of  ambition  and  of  love. 
The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter 
— so  far,  that  is,  as  I  am  concerned, 
for  I  do  not  wish  to  commit  the  old 
bear  to  any  proposition  half  so 
amiable — has  been  that  love  is,  after 
all,  the  master  passion,  vanquishing 
honour,  laughing  at  death,  and, 
about  this  time  of  year  especially, 
writing  innumerable  letters.  The 
catholicity  of  love  and  of  love- 
making  is  the  only  absolute  one; 
and  I  back  it  for  the  only  true  and 
genuine  eirenicon.  The  memory  of 
St.  Valentine  is  touchingly  and  ap- 
propriately honoured  even  by  those 
who  have  no  idea  of  the  red-letter 
days  of  a  Christian  calendar.  Flut- 
tering Cupids  daintily  hold  in  their 
softest  fetters  the  gallant  mandarin 
who  sees  the  gentle  Venus,  hominum 
Divumque  vuluptas,  reflected  in  the 
adorable  and  elliptical  eyes  of  his 
celestial  charmer.  Dragged  along 
by  the  silken  cords,  we  behold  in 
our  mind's  eye  the  representatives 
of  all  populations,  from  the  Pata- 
gonian  to  the  Esquimaux,  from  the 
Maori  to  the  Fox  Islander,  from  the 
Hottentot  to  the  extra- civilized  races 
of  Europe. 

How  the  impish  progeny  of  the 
Queen  of  Love  ring  out  their  joyous 
glee  and  let  fall  their  tinkling  laugh- 
ter at  the  heterogeneous  but  unani- 
mous procession  which  marshals 
itself  on  the  artist's  brain  and  peo- 
ples his  quaint  and  fertile  invention ! 
Fu'st  with  a  becoming  and  national, 
but  only  outward,  insouciance, 
marches  Young  England,  male  and 
female;  after  whom,  separated  only 
by  the  elegant  natives  of  the  Flowery 
Land,  who  have  been  introduced 
already,  proceed,  with  more  outward 
demonstrations  of  affection,  the  re- 
prescnlatives  of  a  rather  more  elderly 

VOL    XI.— NO.  LXU. 


England.  The  drill-sergeant  has 
fallen  back  upon  the  once  despised 
glories  of  the  goose- stej),  and  seems 
to  rejoice  in  parading  the  affection 
of  his  well-preserved  elect.  Fol- 
lows an  Arcadian,  sentimentally 
haranguing  his  lady-love  in  the 
chastely-ornamental  style  of  Claude 
Melnotte,  and  eloquently  descanting 
about  that  chateau  of  his  that,  on  the 
shore  of  some  lake  in  lovely  Spain, 
towers  up  into  the  eternal  summer. 
Merrily,  and  taking  pleasure  plea- 
santly, trips  to  dance-music  the  gay 
army  subaltern  of  la  grande  nation. 
Then  a  nondescript  pair,  whose  pas- 
sion is  that  of  romance  and  disguise, 
who  exchange  the  ever-fresh  and 
kindling  vow  in  the  worn-out  lan- 
guage of  the  formal  past,  and  tread 
meanwhile  a  stately  measure.  Fol- 
low a  crest-fallen  couple  who  have 
dared  the  impious  experiment  of 
electing  friendship  to  the  place  of 
love,  one  of  whom,  the  spectator 
rejoices  to  observe,  is  justly  being 
tweaked  as  to  the  nose  for  his  au- 
dacity. The  pet  god  is  not  more 
amiable  when  indulged  than  venge- 
ful when  his  patience  has  been  too 
much  or  too  impudently  tried. 
Next  after  these  rebuked  and 
punished  wretches,  a  lady  of  Eliza- 
bethan time  and  dignity  receives 
with  a  gratified  hauteur  and  with  a 
guarded  mouth  the  addresses  of  the 
gallant  who  pays  a  half-Mephisto- 
phelean homage  in  the  shape  of  a 
kiss  on  the  coyly-surrendered  hand ; 
whilst  the  knight,  whose  motto  is 
'  God  and  the  Ladies,'  sighs  to  think 
of  the  vows  that  come  between  him- 
self and  a  more  particular  selection. 
The  squire  is  happier  with  his  pil- 
lioned  demoiselle;  and  Hodge  and 
the  grenadier  perform  to  the  best  of 
their  willing  ability  the  almost  dou- 
ble duty  which  three  capricious  and 
capering  beauties  demand  at  their 
hands  and  hearts.  The  Elizabethan 
gentleman  in  the  wake  of  these  is 
about,  we  fancy,  to  contract  a  mes- 
alliance ;  and  the  tar  walks  stoutly 
off  with  a  lady  who  must  have  fur- 
tively wandered  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  a  court,  and  who  doubt- 
less enjoys  the  despair  of  the  barrister 
I 


114 


St.  Valentines  Day, 


who  in  pleading  his  own  cause  has 
become  the  most  mihapity  and  hope- 
less of  suitors. 

All  tlie.-e,  liowoTcr,  are  the  mero 
phantoms  of  the  artist's  brain  ;  but 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  fortunate 
pair  whose  forms  in  all  but  tlesh 
anil  blood  occupy  the  centre  of  his 
ornamental  lozenpc?  What  shall 
we  say  ?  It  is  a  ditlicult  question  for 
any  writer  or  reader  to  answer  who 
is  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  re- 
maining true  to  an  allegiance  that 
has  been  pledged  elsewhere.  Turn 
over  the  page  quickly,  fair  lady  or 
gallant  gentleman,  unless,  indeed, 
you  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  the 
identical  ones  represented  in  all  the 
intensity  of  pictorial  bliss  ;  in  which 
case,  as  nobly  and  ungrudgingly  as 
we  may,  we  will  wish  each  of  you 
joy,  and  pray  that  every  succeeding 
day  may  bo  a  renewal  of  love  and  a 
commemoration  of  this  day  of  St. 
Valentine. 

What  memories  does  not  the  name 
of  the  dear  old  saint  call  up— what 
memories,  not  all  undashed  with  re- 
gret !  For,  alas !  it  is  so  very  ea.sy 
for  the  best  things  to  degenerate 
into  the  worst !  As  I  walk  through 
the  streets  in  these  latter  days  of 
January  I  see  in  the  windows  of 
every  print-shop  flaring  and  ab.surd 
parodies  of  the  tenderest  of  passions, 
monstrosities  of  z;; humanity  in- 
tended to  burlesque  the  most  sacred 
and  the  most  universal  of  mortal 
or  immortal  affections— coarse  and 
flaunting  vulgarities  of  form  and 
colour,  matched  by  doggrel  verses 
offensive  and  ribald  beyond  the 
furthest  stretch  of  license.  Only 
here  and  there  amongst  the  hideous 
caricatures  there  is  erected  some 
chaste,  retiring,  and  half-expo.sed 
altar  of  Hymen,  from  which  the 
fumes  of  incense  are  with  dillicnlty 
seen  to  ascend  to  the  delight  of  a 
group  of  fluttering  Cupids,  and  to 
the  edification  of  a  pair  of  lovers  in 
the  act  of  blessing  each  other  by 
the  interchange  of  mutual  vows  of 
eternal  union  and  con.>tancy. 

My  earlier  memories  of  the  feast 
of  St.  Valentino  are  of  a  different 
order.  In  a  primitive  and  secluded 
district,  where  life  6eeme<l  to  win  a 
solemnity  even  from  its  monotony, 
the  claims  of  the  most  popular  of 


the  saints  were  not  so  sot  at  nought. 
The  stately  drama  was  the  business 
of  the  celebration  ;  the  farce,  if  there 
was  one,  was  an  afterpieces  which 
followed,  as  the  Christmas  hilarity 
followed  the  morning  sermon.  I 
fish  up  from  the  imperishable  stores 
of  memory  the  recollection  of  the 
mystery  that  hovered  over  the  ac- 
tions, the  sayings,  the  iuuendocs  of 
my  compeers  for  many  days  before 
St.  Valentino  gave  his  sanction  to 
those  hearty  declarations  which  it 
were  a  forlorn  hope  to  suppose 
could  be  quite  anonymous.  The 
kind  of  valentine  I  best  remember 
in  those  days  was  one  cut  out  of 
pa]-)er  into  many  curious  patterns, 
and  folded  afterwards  into  as  many 
shapes  as  the  ingenuity  of  waiters 
has  since  devi.sed  for  metropolitan 
dinner- napkins.  Triangular,  oblong, 
square,  diamond,  circular,  polygonal, 
worked  out  by  the  cunning  shears 
to  the  similitude  of  most  elaborate 
lace-work,  and  made  vocal  by  some 
quaint  and  ardent  rhyme — such  were 
the  bait  with  which  we  angled  for 
the  favour  of  our  chosen  fair,  and 
with  which,  0  rapture!  wo  occa- 
sionally succeeded  in  captivating 
them  for  a  couple  of  days.  The 
arhiier  il  (/(i)ifi>tr>im  in  these  mat- 
ters, without  whom  nothing  could 
be  done,  or  at  least  done  well,  was  a 
cheerful  lady  who,  having  slighted 
the  opportunity  of  taking  that  ebb 
in  her  affairs  which  led  on  to  matri- 
mony, devoted  much  ot  her  genial 
old  maidenhood  to  the  delectation 
of  the  youth  of  both  sexes.  Her 
services,  her  taste,  her  niinblo  wit 
and  pliant  shears,  were  called  into 
requisition  whenever  an  assault 
more  determined  than  usual  was  to 
be  matle  on  some  too-ol)dnrato 
charmer's  heart.  I  know  not  where 
now  abidas  the  spirit  of  that  vestal 
priestess  of  Venus;  whether  it  haply 
floats  about  mo  as  1  write  these 
lines,  or  whether,  still  incarnate,  it 
initiates  the  youth  of  the  antipodes 
— whither,  ol>edient  to  some  noble 
impul.se,  she  went  to  end  her  days — 
into  the  same  mysteries  that,  twenty 
years  ago,  were  so  pi<iuant  and  en- 
gaging to  the  youngsters  of  my 
native  village.  Peace  be  to  her, 
wherever  she  may  bo;  yea,  peace 
mast   bo  with  her  as  a  condition  of 


St.  Valentine's  Day. 


115 


her  benevolent  and  placid  exist- 
ence. 

When  the  valentine  was  finished 
came  the  task  of  selecting  a  '  posie/ 
a  legend,  a  rhyme  of  true  love, 
which  had  to  be  written  round  and 
round  inwards  until  it  centred  finally 
in  a  bleeding  heart  transfixed  by  the 
dart  of  Love.  Let  t1ie  hiase  reader 
try  to  imagine  the  ineffable  tender- 
ness that  welled  out  in  such  pathetic 
words  as 

•  The  rose  is  red,  the  violet  blue, 
Carnations  sweet,  and  so  are  you ; 
And  so  are  they  that  sent  you  this; 
And  when  we  meet  we'll  have  a  kiss— 
A  kiss  on  the  cheek  and  a  kiss  on  the  chin, 
And  when  we  meet  we'll  kiss  again.' 

To  this  astounding  length  did  our 
proposals  go.  Whether  they  were 
ever  carried  out,  the  present  depo- 
nent is  in  no  position  to  say.  An- 
other of  these  poems  began  with  the 
lines 

•As  I  lay  sleeping  on  my  bed, 
I  saw  a  rose  and  it  was  red ;' 

the  first  of  which  the  philosophical 
inquirer  into  valentine  literature 
will  be  interested  in  comparing  with 
the 

'  Quant  je  suy  couchid  en  mon  lit,' 

which  commences  one  of  the  numer- 
ous valentines  of  Charles  Duke  of 
Orleans,  a  personage  with  whom  we 
are  inclined  to  wish  our  space  en- 
abled us  to  make  the  reader  a  trifle 
better  acquainted. 

In  those  days,  and  in  that  locality, 
— which,  we  may  inform  the  reader, 
in  confidence,  was  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  thriving  emporium  and 
fashionable  watering-place  of  Daws- 
mere  —  we  urchins,  wise  in  our 
generation  according  to  our  lights, 
passed  by  the  temptations  of  the 
penny-post  and  delivered  our  love- 
missives  in  person.  After  this 
manner.  When  the  shades  of  even- 
ing had  fully  closed  in  upon  the 
face  of  nature,  and  a  row  of  blinded 
and  curtained  lights  streamed  out 
fitfully  upon  the  straggling  street, 
the  adventurous  youth  arose  and 
salhed  forth.  His  elegant  declara- 
tion— possibly  he  would  be  Don 
Juan  enough  to  fortify  himself  with 
more  than  one — being  duly  directed 
in   the    best    disguise    his   hand- 


writing could  assume,  was  laid 
tenderly,  silently,  aud  with  trepi- 
dation of  heart  against  some  door 
behind  which  his  inamorata  was 
very  likely  lurking  expectant.  One 
good  heavy  knock  and  a  scam- 
per of  feet  in  fearful  flight;  the 
opening  of  the  door,  sometimes  all 
too  prompt;  the  groping  for  the 
valentine  on  the  part  of  the  lovce 
and  her  jealous  sisters— tliese  were 
the  circumstances  that  made  illus- 
trious the  delivery  of  eacli.  So  far 
the  youngster  had  proceeded  in  good 
faith  ;  but  now,  after  having  cooled 
a  little  from  the  fever  of  doubt  as  to 
whether  he  had  been  discovered,  and 
as  to  how  his  devotion  had  been  re- 
ceived by  the  idol  of  his  soul,  he 
was  at  liberty  to  make  fun  of  the 
fair  to  whose  charms  he  was  indif- 
ferent. His  next  exploit  would  be 
a  practical  joke.  A  piece  of  paper 
folded  up  in  some  form  proper  to 
the  occasion,  and  promising  as  much 
as  if  it  were  veritably  sick  of  love, 
would  be  perforated  for  a  piece  of 
string.  The  sham  valentine  is  laid, 
as  before,  on  the  doorstep;  the 
knocker  is  thumped  as  emphatically 
as  before;  the  retirement  as  speedy 
as  before,  but  not  to  so  remote  a 
distance.  The  operator  has  only 
retreated  to  the  further  extremity  of 
the  string,  of  which  the  other  end 
secures  the  traitorously-folded  sheet, 
when,  as  before,  the  door  opens. 
Anxious  fingers  grope  lantil,  in  the 
semi-darkness,  they  pounce  at  length 
upon — the  bare,  cold  ground  or  the 
vacant  stone.  The  valentine  itself 
has  moved  about  six  inches.  '  'Twas 
but  the  wind.'  The  eluded  fingers 
try  and  try  again,  whilst  again  and 
again  the  wind  delights  to  frustrate 
their  intention  of  taking  possession. 
Then  comes  the  climax  of  the  joke. 
Whenever  a  (p-ah  has  been  made  at 
the  valentine  lying  on  the  ground, 
a  judicious  pull  from  the  observing 
youth  has  attracted  it  in  his  own 
direction;  until  the  mortified  maiden, 
either  at  length  fairly  baffled  or  fully 
enlightened,  gives  up  in  despair  or 
bridles  up  in  wrath,  and  closes  the 
door  with  a  bang  to  a  chorus  of  un- 
mannerly laughter  from  the  asso- 
ciates of  her  tormentor.  A  variety 
of  this  joke  was  to  draw  the  '  coun- 
terfeit presentment'  of  a  valentine 

I   2 


116 


St.  Valentine's  Day, 


in  crayon ;  in  other  wordB,  to  chalk 
a  parallcloprani  on  tlio  ground  be- 
fore the  door.  But  this  was  a  cora- 
panitivfly  tame  affair,  as  there  could 
of  course  l>e  only  one  disappoint- 
ment and  one  triumph  before  the 
mean  trick  was  exploded.  I  think 
I  have  heard  of  pins  being  intro- 
duced into  the  valentines  to  which 
strings  were  attached  ;  but  this  was 
getting  far  lieyond  the  pale  of  fun 
into  that  of  mi.'^chicf,  if  not  of  wan- 
tonness and  malice.  For  myself  I 
will  not,  because  I  cannot,  confess 
to  a  malpractice  of  this  kind ;  but 
of  all  the  others  I  thank  a  certain 
Venus  of  eleven  years  old— at  that 
time,  of  course;  she  is  now  a  Juno 
and  a  matron — I  have  had  my  sliare. 
To-day,  alas !  concerning  valentines 
I  must  profess  actum  est,  so  far,  that 
is,  as  the  srudivfj  of  them  is  con- 
cerned. But  no  man  can  bar  his 
door  against  the  dulcet  appeal  of  a 
double  knock  ;  and  if  the  valentines 
I  have  had  the  happiness  to  receive 
for  the  last  three  years  from,  I  be- 
lieve, the  same  faithful  and  devoted 
angel,  were  sent  by  any  one  who 
reads  this  tattle  of  mine,  there  is 
still  time  for  her  to  know  that  I  am 
looking  forward  to  my  annual  com- 
pliment, and  that  I  am  open  to  a 
declaration  which  shall  not  be  anony- 
mous. After  this  candid  advertise- 
ment of  the  state  of  my  affections  I 
shall  know,  if  the  postofiico  is  neg- 
ligent towards  me  on  the  morning 
of  the  imi)ending  festival,  that  my 
fair  one  is  faithless  and  that  I  am 
forlorn.  May  I  be  spared  the  tears 
and  dejection  of  so  chilly  a  convic- 
tion ;  yet  let  me  rather  be  neglected 
than  scorned.  I  would  not  choose 
to  appear,  even  to  myself,  depicted 
with  the  ears  of  Midas,  or  with  the 
sometime  head-dress  of '  sweet  bully 
Bottom ,'  tlie  weaver.  So  much ,  kind 
reader,  have  I  l^een  permitted  to  say 
of  mypclf;  bat  I  have  a  few  stray 
jottings  to  lay  before  you  with  refer- 
ence to  our  dear  old  8t.  Valentino 
and  his  world -respected  day. 

The  peripatetic  delivery  of  valen- 
tines by  the  principals,  to  which 
I  have  alluded,  presents  features 
analogous  to  the  proceedings  which, 
according  to  the  author  of  '  liambles 
in  an  Old  City,'  characterize  the  eve 
of  St.  Valentine  at  Norwich.     '  The 


streets,'  says  Madder,  '  swarm  with 
carriers,  and  baskets  laden  with 
treasures  ;  bang,  bang,  l)ang  go  the 
knockers,  and  away  rushes  the 
banger,  dei)ositing  lirst  upon  the 
doorstep  some  packages  from  the 
basket  of  stores ;  again  and  again  at 
intervals,  at  every  door  to  which  a 
missive  is  addre.s.sed,  is  the  same  re- 
peated, till  the  baskets  are  empty. 
Anonymously  St.  Valentine  presents 
his  gifts,  lal^lled  only  "With  St. 
Valentine's  love,"  and  "  Good-mor- 
row, Valentine."  Then  within  the 
houses  of  destination,  the  screams, 
the  shouts,  the  rushings  to  catch 
the  bang-bangs;  the  flushed  faces, 
sparkling  eyes,  rushing  feet  to  pick 
up  the  fairy  gifts ;  inscriptions  to 
Ix!  interpreted,  mysteries  to  be  un- 
ravelled, hoaxes  to  be  found  out; 
great  hampers,  heavy,  and  ticketed 
"  With  care,  this  side  upwards,"  to 
bo  unpacked,  out  of  Avhieh  jump 
little  live  l>oys,  with  St.  Valentine's 
love  to  the  little  ladies  fair;  the 
sham  bang-bangs,  which  bring  no- 
thing but  noise  and  fun,  the  mock 
parcels  that  vanish  from  the  door- 
step by  invisil)le  strings  when  the 
door  opens;  monster  parcels,  that 
dwindle  to  thread-papers  denuded 
of  their  multiplied  envelopes,  with 
fitting  mottoes,  'all  tending  to  the 
final  consummation  of  good  counsel, 
"  Happy  is  he  who  expects  nothing, 
and  he  will  not  be  disappointed." 
It  is  a  glorious  night;  marvel  not 
that  we  would  perpetuate  so  joyous 
a  festivity.' 

In  Devonshire  the  peasants  be- 
lieve that  if  tlu-y  go  to  the  porch  of 
a  church,  and  wait  there  till  half- 
past  twelve  o'clock  on  the  eve  of 
St.  Valentine's  day,  with  a  quantity 
of  hompsced  in  their  hands,  and  at 
the  time  above  mentioned,  .scatter 
the  seed  on  either  side,  repeating 
these  lines — 

'  Ilcmpspcd  I  sow,  l)enipse<(I  I  mow, 
Sho  (ur  he)  llmt  will  rny  Iriic  love  be, 
Come  rake  tlie  licmpRCCtl  after  me,' 

his  or  her  true  love  will  appear 
behind,  in  flio  act  of  raking  up  the 
seed  just  sown,  in  a  winding-sheet. 
In  some  parts  of  Norfolk  this  super- 
stition appears  modified  in  time  and 
jjurposc.  It  is  there  a  part  of  the 
practices  on  the  eve  of  St.  Mark 
(April  25)  to  sow  the  licmpseed  in 


St.  Valentine'a  Day. 


117 


the  expectation  that  it  will  bo  mown 
by  the  sheeted  ghosts  of  those  who 
are  to  die  that  year,  marching  in 
grisly  array  to  the  parish  church. 
And  the  rake  of  the  Devonshire 
spectre  is  replaced  by  the  scythe  of 
the  ghostly  Norfolkman.  A  more 
pleasant  and  a  more  strictly  valen- 
tine use  is  made  of  a  variety  of  the 
same  ceremonial  at  Ashborne,  in 
Devonshire.  There,  if  a  young 
woman  wishes  to  divine  who  her 
future  husband  is  to  be,  she  enters 
the  church  at  midnight,  and,  just  as 
the  clock  strikes  twelve,  begins  to 
run  round  the  building,  repeating, 
without  break  or  intermission,  the 
following  formula : — 

'  I  sow  hempseed,  hempseed  I  sow. 
He  that  loves  me  best, 
Come  after  me  and  mow.' 

And  when  the  young  lady  has  thus 
performed  the  circuit  of  the  build- 
ing a  dozen  times  without  stopping, 
the  figui-e  of  her  lover  is  supposed 
to  answer  to  the  gentle  invocation, 
and  follow  her. 

These  are  Old  World  supersti- 
tions, and  we  are  not  to  look  for 
them  in  the  New.  But  in  America 
St.  Valentine  is  popular,  and  would 
seem  to  be  turned  to  a  direct  prac- 
tical advantage  in  the  way  of  in- 
itiating the  process  of  courtship  and 
of  facilitating  the  process  of  matri- 
mony. Of  course,  in  a  great  coun- 
try that  licks  creation,  and  is  just 
now  reposing  and  '  recuperating ' 
after  licking  itself ;  where  marriages 
are  cooked  up  in  a  short  railway 
trip,  and  performed  by  some  zealous 
and  opportime  clergyman  in  tran- 
situ ;  where  railway  companies  at- 
tach '  bridal  chambers '  to  excursion 
trains  as  a  part  of  their  regular  fur- 
niture ;  and  where  enterprising 
couples  plight  their  troth  and  endow 
each  other  with  all  their  worldly 
goods  in  a  balloon — in  such  a  coun- 
try it  is  no  great  marvel  if  there 
should  be  some  truth  in  the  hy- 
meneal puff  of  an  advertisement 
like  the  following,  culled  from  a 
*  Worster  Democrat '  issued  in  early 
February  a  few  years  ago : — 

'  The  great  increase  in  marriages 
throughout  Wayne  Co.  during  the 
past  year  is  said  to  be  occasioned  by 
the  superior  excellence  of  the 


Valentines 
sold  by  George  Howard.  Indeed, 
so  complete  was  his  success  in  this 
line,  that  Cupid  has  again  commis- 
sioned him  as  the  "  Great  High 
Priest"  of  Love,  Courtship,  and 
Marriage,  and  has  supplied  George 
with  the  most  complete  and  perfect 
assortment  of  "  Love's  Armor  "  ever 
before  offered  to  the  citizens  of 
Wayne  County.  During  the  past 
year  the  "  Blind  God  "  has  centred 
his  thoughts  on  producing  some- 
thing in  the  line  far  surpassing  any- 
thing he  has  heretofore  issued.  And 
it  is  with  "  feelinks  "  of  the  greatest 
joy  that  he  is  able  to  announce  that 
he  has  succeeded. 

'Howard  has  got  them! 
*To  those  susceptible  persons 
whose  hearts  were  captured  during 
the  past  year,  George  refers,  and 
advises  others  to  call  on  them,  and 
find  them  on  their  way  rejoicing, 
shouting  praises  to  the  name  of 
Howard.  The  "blessings"  descend 
unto  even  the  third  and  fourth 
generations,  and  it  is  probable  that 
the  business  will  go  on  increasing 
year  upon  year,  until  Howard's 
valentines  will  be  a  "household 
word"  throughout  the  land.  The 
children  on  the  house-tops  will  call 
to  the  passers-by,  shouting 

"  Howard's  Valentines  !" 
while  the  cry  is  echoed  from  the 
ground,    and    swelling    over    hill 
and  vale,  reverberates  the  country 
through. 

'Eemember  that  the  only  regu- 
larly-authorized dispenser  of  Cupid's 
goods  is 

George  Howard, 
two  doors  East  of  the   American 
House,  Worster,  0. 

'  1^  Orders  by  mail  promptly  at- 
tended to.  Prices  range  from  six 
cents  to  five  dollars. 

'  Valentines  ! ! 
'  A  large  and  splendid  assortment 
of  valentines,  together  with  all  the 
necessary  fixings,  for  sale  wholesale 
and  retail,  at  the  New  Column 
Building. 

'  J.  H.  Battmgarten  &  Co. 
*  Worster,  Feb.  3,  1853. 


118 


5/.  Valentine's  Day. 


'Valentines. — Pchold,  St.  Valen- 
tine's Day  is  coniinp,  and  nil  are 
seckinp:  for  niossages  to  bo  dc- 
spatched  under  cover  of  this  Saint 
to  friend  or  foe.  They  are  provided 
of  ail  kinds,  styles,  and  varieties, 
ready  for  use.  The  turtle-dovo 
kind,  with  its  coo!  coo!  the  .sensible 
sentimental,  the  cnttint;  and  severe, 
and,  in  short,  everything  that  can 
be  required.  Just  call  on  Georgo 
Howard  or  J.  H.  Baunigarten  &  Co., 
and  you  can  be  suited  to  a  T.' 

Docs  the  curious  though  hazily- 
informed  reader  wish  at  this  stago 
of  our  progress  to  suggest  a  ques- 
tion as  to  who  St.  Valentine  was  ? 
That  is  a  question  to  which,  thanks 
to  the  *  Acta  Sanctorum '  and  Alban 
Butler's  '  Lives  of  the  Saints,'  an 
answer  is  tolerably  easy  and  precise. 
'  Valentine  was  a  holy  priest  in 
Rome,  who,  with  St.  Marias  and  his 
family,  assisted  the  martyrs  in  the 
persecution  under  Claudius  II.  He 
was  apprehended,  and  sent  by  the 
Emperor  to  the  Prefect  of  Rome, 
who,  on  finding  all  his  promises  to 
make  him  renounce  his  faith  in- 
effectual, commanded  him  to  bo 
beaten  with  clubs,  and  afterward  to 
be  beheaded,  which  was  executed 
on  the  14th  February,  about  the 
year  270.  Pope  Julius  I.  is  said  to 
have  built  a  church  near  Ponto 
Mole  to  his  memory,  which  for  a 
long  time  gave  name  to  the  gate 
now  called  Porta  del  Popolo,  for- 
merly Porta  Valentini.  The  great- 
est part  of  his  relics  are  now  in  the 
church  of  St.  Praxedes.  His  name 
is  celebrated  as  that  of  an  illu.strious 
martyr  in  tlie  Sacramentary  of  St. 
Gregory,  the  Roman  Mis.'^al  of  Tho- 
masius,  in  the  ('alendar  of  F.  Fronto, 
and  that  of  Allatius,  in  Pede, 
Usnard,  Ado,  Notker,  and  all  otlicr 
martyrologics  on  tliis  day.  To 
alK>Hsh  till'  heathen's  lewd,  super- 
stitions custom  of  lK)ys  drawing  the 
names  of  girls,  in  lionour  of  their 
po<lde.sR,  Felirnata  Juno,  on  the  1 5th 
of  this  montii,  .several  Zfalons  pas- 
tors substituted  the  names  of  saints 
in  billets  given  on  this  day.'  To 
this  we  would  only  enter  the  single 
caveat  that  the  tni>  relics  of  St. 
Valentine  are,  in  a  beatified  state, at 
this  present  moment  tiaunting  in 
unnumbered    stationers'    windows. 


and  waiting  to  bo  scattered  abroad 
to  the  tour  winds  of  heaven  on  th6 
wings  of  every  post.  St.  Francis  do 
Sales,  a  bishop  and  prince  of  Ge- 
neva, who  died  in  1622,  and  was 
canonized  in  1665,  to  whom  wo  are 
inclined,  for  the  sake  of  his  devout 
treatise  on  '  Practical  Piety,'  to  for- 
give everything  but  tliis,  was  one  of 
the  '  zealous  j)astors '  who,  to  use 
the  words  of  Alban  Butler, '  severely 
forbade  the  custom  of  valentines,  or 
giving  boys,  in  writing,  the  names 
of  girls  to  bo  admired  and  attended 
on  by  them :  and,  to  abolish  it,  he 
changed  it  into  giving  billets  with 
the  names  of  certain  saints  to  honour 
and  imitate  in  a  particular  manner.' 
It  is  too  heartrending  to  contem- 
plate the  disappointment  of  the  in- 
genuous youth  who,  hoping  to  re- 
ceive the  likeness  or  the  name  of 
the  blooming  i\Iariana  or  the  saucy 
Julietta,  received  instead  the  efiigies 
of  some  musty  an<l  dyspeptic  ascetic 
at  loggerheads  with  the  devil — some 
Antony  of  the  Desert,  or  some  Dun- 
stau  of  the  Tongs. 

In  the  early  part  of  last  cen- 
tury it  was  the  custom  for  young 
folks  in  England  ami  Scotland  to 
celebrate  a  little  festival  on  tbe  eve 
of  St.  Valentine's  Day.  '  An  equal 
number  of  maids  and  bachelors,' 
says  Misson,  a  traveller  of  veracity 
and  discernment,  '  get  together ; 
each  writes  their  true  or  some 
feigned  name  u))nn  ."separate  billets, 
which  tliey  roll  up  and  draw  by 
way  of  lots,  the  maids  taking  the 
men's  billets,  and  the  men  the  maids'; 
so  that  each  of  the  men  lights  upon 
a  girl  that  he  calls  his  vab  iiliue,  and 
each  of  the  girls  upon  a  yoimg  man 
whom  she  calls  her.s.  By  this  mejms 
each  has  two  valentines;  but  the 
man  sticks  faster  to  the  valentine 
that  has  fallen  to  him  than  to  the 
valentine  to  whom  he  has  fallen. 
Fortune  having  thus  divided  the 
comi)any  into  so  many  couples, 
the  valentines  give  balls  and  treats 
to  their  mistre.s.'-eH,  wear  their  billets 
several  days  ujion  their  bo.soms  or 
sleeves ;  and  this  little  sport  often 
ends  in  love.' 

The  pn'eat  Pe])ys  has  some  quaint 
and  pictun!.«(|ue  jiarticulars  of  his 
valentine  experience.  We  copy  the 
following  entries  from  his  'Diary' : 


St.  Valentine's  Day. 


119 


'Yalentine's  Day,  1667.  This  morn- 
ing came  up  to  my  wife's  bedside  (I 
being  np  dressing  myself)  little 
Will  Mercer,  to  be  her  valentine, 
and  brought  her  name  written  upon 
blue  paper  in  gold  letters,  done  by 
himself,  very  pretty;  and  we  were 
both  well  pleaded  with  it.  But  I 
am  also  this  year  my  wife's  valen- 
tine, and  it  will  cost  me  5/.;  but 
that  I  must  have  laid  out  if  we  had 
not  been  valentines. 

'February  16.  I  find  that  Mrs. 
Pierce's  little  girl  is  my  valentine, 
she  having  drawn  me :  which  I  was 
not  sorry  for,  it  easing  me  of  some- 
thing more  that  I  must  have  given 
to  others.  But  here  I  do  first  ob- 
serve the  fashion  of  drawing  mot- 
toes as  well  as  names,  so  that  Pierce, 
who  drew  my  wife,  did  draw  also  a 
motto,  and  this  girl  drew  another 
for  me.  What  mine  was,  I  forget; 
but  my  wife's  was,  "  Most  courteous, 
and  most  fair,"  which,  as  it  might 
be  used,  or  an  anagram  upon 
each  name,  might  be  very  pretty.' 
Pepys  tells  us  also  that  the  Duke  of 
York,  being  on  one  occasion  the 
valentine  of  the  celebrated  Miss 
Stuart,  afterwards  Duchess  of  Eich- 
mond, '  did  give  her  a  jewel  of  about 
800/. ;  and  my  Lord  Mandeville,  her 
valentine  this  year,  a  ring  of  about 
300?.' 

But  we  meant  to  have  anticipated 
another  question  on  the  part  of  the 
benevolent  reader.  St.  Valentine 
being  such  as  he  was,  and  not  a 
bishop  who  immortalized  the  day  by 
writing  a  love-letter  upon  it — as  we 
were  in  very  early  youth  given  mis- 
takenly to  understand  by  a  here- 
siarch  of  a  nursemaid — how  conies 
his  name  to  be  used  as  a  cover  for 
all  the  love-doings  that  take  place 
under  the  quoted  sanction  of  his 
name  and  authority  ?  This  has  al- 
ready been  vaguely  explained  in  the 
quotation  from  Alban  ButJer.  But 
we  may  say  ten  more  words  about 
it;  and  these  words  we  choose  to 
say  by  deputy  of  the  author  of  a 
small  paper  entitled  '  The  true  story 
of  St.  Valentine,'  which  appeared  in 
the  'Churchman's  Family  Maga- 
zine '  for  February  of  last  year.  'In 
ancient  Home  there  was,  about  the 


middle  of  February  in  each  year, 
held  the  public  festival  called  Lu- 
percalia,  which  was  given  in  honour 
of  the  Lycajan  Pan.  One  of  the 
numerous  ceremonies  at  this  pagan 
festival  was  to  put  the  names  of 
young  women  into  a  box,  from 
which  they  were  drawn  by  the 
young  men,  as  chance  directed ; 
and  as  in  those  days  auguries  were 
thought  much  of,  and  exercised 
great  influence  over  the  minds  of 
the  superstitious  Eomans,  the  girl 
whose  name  was  thus  drawn  by  lot 
from  the  box  was  considered  as  a 
person  very  likely  to  become  the 
future  wife  of  the  drawer.  As  a 
good  deal  of  barbarous  and  licen- 
tious conduct  was  often  the  result 
of  this  ceremony,  the  zealous  fathers 
of  the  early  Christian  Church  used 
every  possible  means  in  their  power 
to  eradicate  these  vestiges  of  pagan 
superstitions.  The  names  of  saints 
instead  of  these  girls  were  placed 
upon  the  billets,  and  that  saint 
which  each  drew  was  to  be  his 
tutelary  guardian  during  the  follow- 
ing year,  and  as  theLupercalia  was, 
as  we  have  already  mentioned,  held 
about  the  middle  of  February,  they 
appear  to  have  chosen  St.  Valen- 
tine's Day  whereon  to  celebrate  their 
reformed  festival.  The  exertions  of 
the  priests  were  not  altogether 
barren  of  good  results,  for  although 
St.  Valentine's  Day  is  a  day  pecu- 
liarly devoted  to  love  affairs,  its 
festivities  are  no  longer  associated 
with  the  pagan  aspect  which  called 
forth  the  righteovis  ire  of  the  good 
Fathers  of  the  Church ;  a  result  for 
which  we  ought  to  be  truly  thank- 
ful, and  one  which  is  a  striking 
example  of  the  good  work  which 
Christianity  is  ever  doing.  It  has 
not  abolished  the  custom,  but  puri- 
fied it.  It  has  taken  away  the  old 
heathen  coarseness  and  liftentious- 
ness,  but  has  left  unchanged  the 
play  of  human  feeling  and  affection ; 
true-hearted  lovers,  instead  of  being 
afraid  of  their  newly-discovered 
emotions,  may  have  reason  to  con- 
gratulate themselves  that  they  are 
under  the  tutelage  of  so  good  and 
noble  a  saint  as  Valentine  of  Rome.' 
S.  St.  M. 


120 


A  FORGOTTEN  VALENTINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TITE   MESSENGEU  VOIO  BORE  IT, 


AND  who  never  delivered  it. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  too 
much  to  expect  of  liira  that  ho 
should  do  so ;  too  much  to  expect 
that  the  little  j)acket,  carelessly 
taken  and  thrust  away  amongst 
others,  would  ever  enter  his  head 
again.  At  any  rate  it  did  not.  Ho 
was  a  young  man  still,  though  lio 
had  been  for  some  years  a  widower ; 
and  he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  was 
on  the  way  to  learn  his  fate. 

It  cannot  be  tlattering  to  a  young 
lady,  if  she  knows  it,  that  her  suitor 
should  be  capable  of  taking  thought 
for  any  one  lx;sides  herself;  but 
certainly  Sir  Hugh  Rainham  tried 
to  believe  that  he  was  not  making 
his  own  liapi)iness  altogether  the 
first  consideration.  There  wp,s  the 
well-lxjing  of  his  little  girl  to  be 
thought  of;  and  what  did  he  icnow 
about  bringing  up  little  girls? 
He  had  heard  sensible  people  say, 
and  ho  was  ready  enough  now 
to  accept  the  dictimi,  that  the 
wisest  thing  a  man  in  his  position 
could  do  would  be  to  marry 
again ;  wisest  both  for  his  own 
future  and  his  child's.  Ho  said 
this  to  himself  as  he  stood  in 
Evelyn  Neville's  drawing-room,  hat 
in  hand,  waiting,  looking  out  upon 
the  bare  branches  which  were  soon 
to  bo  green  again,  and  wondering, 
in  a  desultory  fashion,  if  this  Febru- 
ary day  would  bring  him  another 
spring-time,  or  only  the  desolate 
branches,  the  dead  leaves  whirling 
about,  and  the  cold  sky  beyond.  He 
had  nof  long  to  wait.  \Vlu'n  she 
came  into  the  room,  and  that  thrill 
went  through  his  heart  which  the 
presence  of  one  wo  love  al(jne  can 
i)ring,  it  must  have  left  some  n)ark 
upon  his  face;  for  she  knew  why 
he  had  come,  and  in  a  few  rapid 
arguments  had  decided  upon  lier 
answer.  He  was  rich  ;  but  she  did 
not  care  so  much  alH)ut  that,  not 
knowing  what  it  was  to  bo  any- 
thing else;  ho  was  Sir  Hugh  llain- 


ham ;  but  she  didn't  care  for  that 
either,  her  pride  being  of  another 
sort:  he  was  good,  generous,  and 
devoted;  these  things  she  did 
care  for.  He  loved  her;  and  ho 
came  on  a  day  when  tl)at  same 
pride  of  hers  was  smarting  under 
a  sense  of  neglect.  In  the  few 
seconds  allowed  her  before  he  spoko, 
Evelyn  Neville  made  her  decision. 
She  had  thought  that  he  knew,  and 
was  jealous  of,  her  friendship  with 
that  cousin  Frank,  whom  she  had 
fancied  might  one  day  be  nearer 
than  a  cousin.  But  that  v/as  over. 
The  cousins  liad  kept  up  a  childish 
habit  of  exchanging  valentines ; 
and  to-day  there  was  nothing  from 
him,  while  her  own  had  gone  as 
usual.  That  was  the  humiliating 
part  of  it.  If  ,sA('  liad  broken  through 
the  custom,  it  would  have  been  well ; 
but  that  he  should  be  the  first !  and 
when,  too,  he  had  given  her  cause 
to  expect  that  his  would  be  no  ordi- 
nary valentine!  Here,  within  her 
reach,  was  the  moans  of  punishing 
him;  at  any  rate,  of  letting  him 
know  that  she  did  not  care. 

Evelyn  listened  to  Sir  Hugh  with 
a  forced  attention ;  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  that.  When  ho  spoke  of 
his  little  girl,  falteringly,  she  roused 
up  and  saw  the  strong  earnestness 
and  anxiety  in  the  man's  face ;  and, 
strange  to  say,  this  touched  her 
more  just  then  than  any  passionate, 
lover's  pleading  from  his  lij)s  would 
have  done.  She  turned  towards 
him  suddenly,  and  put  her  hand 
into  his,  and  said,  sjjeaking  of  the 
small  Cecilia — 

'She  shall  bo  very  dear  to  me, 
and  precious:  I  will  care  for  her, 
as  much  as  you  could  desire.' 

And  when  Sir  Hugh  hud  left  her, 
she  did  U(jt  repent.  It  is  true  that 
there  came  ujxni  her  a  certain  R<nso 
of  being  Ixnuid;  of  having  done 
what  could  not  bo  undone;  and 
that  half  reliellious  desire  to  be  free, 
which  is  almost  always  inseparable 


A  Forgotten  Valentine. 


121 


from  an  act  that  seals  one's  own  fate. 
And  then  the  drawing-room  was 
rather  lonely  ;  the  trees  outside  the 
window  got  a  ghostly  look,  and 
seemed  to  wrap  themselves  up 
tighter  as  the  fog  gathered  round 
them ;  and — altogether,  she  thought 
she  would  just  go  and  tell  her 
brother,  by  way  of  convincing 
herself  that  the  thing  was  finally 
settled. 

When  she  told  him,  he  lifted  up 
his  eyebrows  and  stared  at  her. 

'Is  it  true? — You  look  as  if  it 
were.  Eather  scared,  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Not  that  there  is  any- 
thing to  be  scared  about;  only  I 
suppose  it's  proper.  Hem !  I  might 
have  thought  of  Frank  Neville ;  but 
this  is  wiser.' 

She  bit  her  lip,  but  never  an- 
swered him.  She  wished  he  had 
not  said  that  about  Frank,  and  she 
didn't  like  the  word  '  wiser.'  What 
had  wisdom  to  do  with  it  ? 

She  started  from  her  sleep  that 
night,  with  a  mist  before  her  eyes 
and  a  great  throbbing  at  her  heart, 
for  Frank's  voice  was  in  her  ears. 
Would  he  care  ? 

But  what  use  to  ask,  now  that  it 
■was  too  late  ?  And  that  it  was  too 
late  no  one  knew  better  than  her- 
self; for  to  her,  having  once  decided 
publicly  as  it  were,  change  would 
have  been  impossible. 

And  on  her  wedding-day  she  was 
to  Sir  Hugh  a  radiant  princess,  far 
away  above  him,  stooping  to  crown 
him  with  the  blessing  of  her  love. 
Anyone  who  had  seen  him  that  day 
might  have  doubted  about  its  being 
altogether,  or  even  very  much  for 
his  daughter's  sake  that  he  took  this 
step. 

'  I  have  reason  to  be  grateful,'  he 
said  to  his  new  brother-in-law,  when 
the  speechif.viDg  was  over,  and  the 
bride  was  going  away  to  change  her 
dress. 

George  Neville  looked  at  her  and 
nodded. 

'  She's  a  good  girl  enough  :  a  little 
self-willed,  perhaps;  but  then  she 
has  always  had  her  own  way.' 

'And  will  have  it  still,  I  hope,' 
said  Sir  Hugh.  '  If  I  don't  make 
her  happy,  I  shall  deserve  to  be  a 
miserable  man  all  my  life.' 

In  years  to  come  he  recalled  the 


speech,  and  wondered  whether  some 
strange  misgiving  had  moved  him 
to  utter  it. 

Just  then  Frank  Neville  was  say- 
ing to  Evelyn,  '  So  you  did  not 
think  me  worth  an  answer!' 

She  was  passing  through  the 
throng  towards  the  door,  and  she 
never  faltered  or  raised  her  head. 
No  one  knew  that  the  words  fell 
upon  her  with  a  sudden  chill,  like  a 
cold  hand  grasping  her  heart.  She 
had  seen  her  cousin  amongst  the 
guests,  and  knew  that  he  was  look- 
ing miserably  ill,  but  she  had  been 
too  much  occupied  to  think  about 
that. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  Frank  ?' 

'  Oh  ;  not  much.  Valentines  don't 
require  answers  in  a  general  way ; 
but  I  think  you  might  have  given 
me  a  few  words  last  February.  How- 
ever, you'll  keep  my  secret.  No 
one  knows  it  but  you,  unless  it  js 
your  husband.  What's  the  matter, 
Evelyn  ?  You  look  as  if  you  didn't 
understand.' 

*  I  don't.' 

'  You  must  have  had  it.  I  missed 
the  post  over-night,  and  gave  it  to 
Eainham,  there,  as  I  knew  he  would 
see  you  the  next  day.' 

'  To— my  husband  ?' 

'  Yes ;  I'll  ask  him * 

'Frank,'  she  said,  with  a  heavy 
hand  on  his  arm,  '  forget  all  this. 
Never  speak  of  it— for  my  sake.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  perplexed 
expression  of  inquiry,  but  he  saw 
that  she  was  white  and  flurried, 
and  gave  up  the  point. 

'  Well,  we  have  always  been 
friends ;  have  we  not  ?  I  would  ask 
you  yet  for  your  good  wishes,  as 
you  have  mine ;  but  the  doctors 
say  there's  something  amiss  here,' 
touching  his   chest;   'and    I   may 

not  live  to never  mind!     God 

bless  you,  Evelyn !' 


CHAPTEE  II. 

ITS  MABK  ON   THE  YEARS  TO  COME. 

Sir  Hugh  brought  his  wife 
home:  and  his  hair  was  not  grey, 
neither  had  any  premature  wrinkles 
marked  his  face.  To  his  servants 
there  appeared  no  change  in  him, 
either   for    better   or   for    worse. 


123 


A  Fiyrgolten  Valentine, 


He  was  just  the  same  grave,  silent, 
rather  deliKrate  niasUr  tliey  re- 
meml>erc(l.  Tliey  did  think,  indeed, 
that  he  was  dreadfully  jiolite  to  his 
lady  ;  bnt  perhaps  that  was  proper 
— before  servants. 

Sir  Hugh,  taking  Evelyn  to  the 
drawing-rooms,  wliioh  he  had  caused 
to  be  altered  and  brightened  for  her, 
turned  and  said  to  her,  '  \\'elcome 
home.' 

And  as  he  said  it,  the  memory  of 
his  own  dreams  of  that  home  stung 
him  so  bitterly  that  he  half  put 
out  his  arms  to  take  into  tliem  the 
Evelyn  he  had  once  known.  But 
she  never  saw  the  movement;  and 
would  not  have  heeded  it  if  she  had 
seen.  She  passed  on  into  the  room, 
the  brilliant  light  of  which  seemed 
to  hurt  Sir  Hugh's  eyes,  for  he  put 
his  hand  over  them  suddenly ;  and 
for  a  moment  he  stood  at  the  door, 
irresolute ;  then  closed  it  gently, 
and  went  to  see  after  his  little 
girl. 

That  was  '  Miral  enough,  they 
said — those  gu  .  jpsdown  stairs  who 
were  always  on  the  watch.  But 
why  didn't  he  take  his  new  wife 
with  him?  And  why  did  he  stay 
with  the  child,  hour  after  hour,  till 
none  of  the  evening  remained  ?  The 
first  evening,  too!  Above  all,  why, 
when  the  household  had  retired, 
and  all  was  quiet,  did  a  tall,  slight 
figure,  which  rustled  a  little  as  it 
passed,  go  into  the  nursery  and 
kneel  down  beside  the  sleeping 
child  and  sob  ? 

The  nurse  saw,  for  she  was  not 
asleep,  as  my  lady  fancied  ;  and  she 
was  not  likely  to  keep  it  to  herself, 
either.  These  and  such  things  were 
puzzling.  At  first  they  formed  a 
constant  source  of  whisperings  and 
shakings  of  wise  heads ;  but  gradu- 
ally the  gloss  of  newness  wore  away 
from  them  ;  the  dull  days  swept  on, 
and  something  of  the  grimne.ss  of 
the  stone  hta<ls  that  guarded  the 
sweep  of  steps  at  the  hall-door 
seemed  to  have  crej)t  into  the  house. 
It  was  so  still  and  silent;  so  mono- 
tonous. But  for  the  small  Cecilia, 
it  would  have  been  unutterably 
dismal.  But  she  was  a  chihl,  and 
had  childish  ways,  which  lemained 
nncliecked.  She  was  (juite  young 
enough  to  take  very  kindly  to  the 


new  mamma,  who  was  so  beautiful 
and  so  gcwd  to  her. 

'  Not  like  nurse  said  she  would 
be — ugly  and  cross,'  she  said  to  her 
favourite  playfellow — '  but  good.  I 
think  she  could  have  brought  the 
little  princess  to  hte  again,  as  well 
as  the  fairy  did.  You  never  saw 
such  eyes  in  your  life  as  she  has 
got ;  just  like  the  pool  under  the 
willows,  where  we  are  not  to  go, 
Charlie,  you  know  ;  down,  as  if  you 
couldn't  ever  see  the  bottom  ;  ever 
so  deep.     And  she  kisses  me,  too.' 

To  which  the  boy  replied,  with 
decision,  that  she  couldn't  be  a  fairy 
in  that  case,  for  ftiiries  never  kissed 
anybody ;  it  wasn't  lucky,  that  was 
unless  they  were  wicked  fairies. 
And  it  was  all  very  well  now,  but 
when  Cecil  married  him,  he  shouldn't 
allow  her  to  kiss  anybody. 

By-and-by,  however,  as  Cecil  grew 
older,  she  used  to  wonder  in  her 
wise  little  head  what  made  her 
father  and  mother,  when  they  were 
alone,  talk  to  each  other,  if  they  did 
talk,  so  like  '  company.'  That  was 
her  idea  of  it.  She  jumped  up  from 
the  piano  one  day,  and  waltzed 
round  to  the  footstool  at  Lady  Ilain- 
ham's  feet,  with  a  sudden  thought 
that  she  would  find  out. 

'  Well,'  said  Evelyn,  looking  at 
the  pursed-up  lips,  which  evidently 
had  a  question  upon  them,  '  wliafs 
the  matter?  Is  your  new  music- 
lesson  too  hard  ?' 

'My  new  music-lesson  is— is  a 
fidgfitty  crank,'  said  Cecil,  hesitating 
for  an  expression  strong  enough; 
'  but  it's  not  that.  I  wiis  just  won- 
dering why  you  and  papa ' 

Sir  Hugh  let  his  lx)ok  fall  with  a 
sudden  noise,  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  jiassing  the  child,  but  taking 
no  notice  of  her. 

'  Why  you  and  papa,'  went  on 
Cecil,  reflectively, '  are  so  odd,  like 
grand  visitors.  When  there's  any 
one  here  I  know  I  have  to  sit  still, 
and  not  tumble  my  frock,  nor  cross 
my  feet ;  but  when  there's  no  one, 
it's  different.' 

'  Your  papa  and  I  are  not  chil- 
dren,' said  Lady  liainhaiu.  '  Grown- 
up jv^oj)le  must  l»e  steady,  Cis.' 

'  Then  I  don't  want  to  be  grown 
up.  And  I'm  sure,  quite  sure,  that 
I'll  never  be  married,  if  one  is  to  do 


A  Forgotten  Valentine, 


123 


nothing  but  sit— sit  all  day  long, 
and  have  no  fun.' 

Lady  Kainham  bent  down  to  kiss 
the  resolute  lips  that  uttered  this 
bold  decision,  and  then  her  face 
grew  sad.  There  were  times  when 
even  to  her  pride  the  life  she  led 
seemed  almost  too  hard  to  bear — 
times  when  she  was  mad  enough  to 
think  she  would  tell  Sir  Hugh  that 
the  act  which  stamped  him  in  her 
eyes  as  base  and  dishonoured  was 
no  secret  from  her,  as  he  doubtless 
believed  it  to  be.  But  she  could 
not  do  it.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
the  consciousness  that  she  knew 
would  only  make  him'  more  con- 
temptible in  his  own  eyes  as  well  as 
in  hers.  It  would  but  widen  the 
gulf,  and  make  what  she  was  able 
to  bear  now  utterly  intolerable.  For 
she  never  doubted  that  the  purport 
of  the  letter  was  known  to  him,  and 
he  had  suppressed  it  for  his  own 
ends.  And  the  poor  boy  who  wrote 
it  was  dead.  There  was  the  great 
mischief  of  it  all.  If  he  had  been 
living  and  well,  so  tender  a  halo 
might  not  have  rested  over  the  past, 
and  all  in  the  past  connected  with 
him  ;  so  bitter  a  resentment  might 
not  have  been  nursed  in  silence 
against  the  wrong  which  her  hus- 
band had  done  them  both.  But 
Frank  had  lived  but  a  few  months 
after  her  wedding,  and  she  never 
saw  him  again.  He  was  dead,  and 
she  had  killed  him — no,  not  she,  but 
Sir  Hugh. 

She  was  thinking  such  thoughts 
one  day  when  something  made  her 
look  up,  and  she  met  Sir  Hugh's 
eyes  fixed  upon  her.  There  was  so 
peculiar  an  expression  in  them  that 
she  could  not  prevent  a  certain 
proud,  antagonistic  inquiry  coming 
into  her  own.  He  went  towards 
her  with  his  book  open  in  his  hand. 
He  bent  down  and  put  his  finger  on 
a  line  in  the  page,  drawing  her 
attention  to  it. 

' "  How  much  the  wife  is  dearer 
than  the  bride."  This  struck  me 
rather,  that's  all,'  he  said,  and  went 
away. 

E'/elyn  Fat  on  by  the  window,  but 
the  book  dropped  from  her  fingers, 
and  she  covered  her  face.  What 
did  he  mean  ?  If  he  had  only  not 
gone  away  then ! 


'  How  could  he  do  that  one  thing  ?' 
she  said  to  herself.  '  He  meant  the 
line  as  a  reproach  to  me.  And  I 
would  have  loved  him — is  it  pos- 
sible that  I  do  love  him,  in  spite  of 
it?  Am  I  so  weak  and  false?  I 
want  so  much  to  comfort  him  some- 
times that  I  half  forget,  and  am 
tempted.  But  I  never  will — I  never 
must.  I  used  to  be  strong,  I  shall 
be  strong  still.' 

And  so  the  same  front  of  icy  in- 
difi'erence  met  Sir  Hugh  day  by  day 
and  year  by  year,  and  he  knew  none 
of  her  struggles.  But  he  wrapped 
himself  up  more  and  more  in  his 
books  and  his  problems  and  writings. 
New  MSS.  began  to  grow  out  of  old 
ones,  for  he  had  always  been  given 
to  authorship,  and  the  accumulation 
of  papers  on  various  subjects.  In 
these  days  a  little  fairy  used  to  come 
in  from  time  to  time  with  a  pretence 
of  arranging  them  for  him.  She 
would  open  and  shut  the  study 
door  with  a  great  show  of  quietness, 
seat  herself  on  a  big  chest  which 
was  full  of  old  papers,  and  in  which 
she  meant  to  have  a  glorious  rum- 
mage some  day ;  and  begin  folding 
up  neat  little  packages;  stitching 
loose  sheets  together ;  reading  a  bit 
here  and  there,  and  looking  up  now 
and  then  with  a  suggestive  sigh  till 
he  would  lay  aside  his  work,  and 
declare  that  she  was  the  plague  of 
his  life.  This  was  the  signal  always 
for  the  forced  gravity  to  disappear 
from  Cecil's  face  ;  for  her  to  jump 
up,  radiant  and  gleeful,  and  just 
have  one  turn  round  the  room — to 
shake  off  the  cobwebs,  as  she  said. 

'  But  you  know  you  couldn't  do 
without  me,  and  I  do  help  very 
much.  What  do  you  know  about 
stitching  papers  together?  And 
you  are  a  most  ungrateful  man  to 
say  I  am  a  plague,  only  you  don't 
mean  it.  I  wonder  what  you'll  do 
when  I  am  married.' 

'  Married !'  echoed  Sir  Hugh.  '  GrO 
and  play  with  your  last  new  toys, 
and  don't  talk  nonsense.' 

But  the  word  worried  him,  and 
made  him  thoughtful.  When  he 
came  to  consider  it,  the  fairy  was  no 
longer  exactly  a  child,  though  she 
was  as  merry  as  a  young  kitten. 
He  did  a  little  sum  on  his  fingers 
in  sheer  absence  of  mind,  and  found 


124 


A  Forgotten  Valentine. 


out  that  in  a  few  weeks  she  would 
bo  eighteen.  It  was  twelve  years 
since  he  went,  that  February  day, 
to  pfcad  her  cause  and  his  own  with 
Evelyn  Neville.  Ho  used  to  go 
now  sometimes  to  the  window  and 
look  out,  and  remember  the  day 
when  he  hod  stood  at  that  other 
window  watching  bare  branches  and 
wondering  about  his  future.  He 
knew  it  now.  If  only  he  could  find 
out  «'/,!/  it  was  thus.  What  had 
changed  her  all  at  once,  on  her 
wedding- day,  from  the  very  mo- 
ment, as  it  seemed  to  him,  that  she 
became  his  wife? 

Sir  Hugh  pushed  his  hair  away 
from  his  forehead  and  sighed.  He 
was  getting  grey  by  this  time,  but 
then  he  was  past  forty,  and  Evelyn, 
hifl  wife,  must  be  two-and-thirty  at 
least.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  noticed  no  alteration  in  her. 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  ever,  with 
the  beauty  of  a  statue  that  chills 
you  when  you  touch  it.  He  thought 
he  would  look  at  her  that  evening 
and  see  if  he  could  trace  no  change, 
such  as  there  was  in  himself.  He 
did  look,  when  the  room  was  bril- 
liant with  soft  light,  and  she  sat 
languidly  turning  over  a  book  of 
engravings  with  Cecil.  They  formed 
a  strange  contrast;  the  cold,  proud, 
indifferent  beauty  of  the  one  face 
and  the  eager  animation  of  the  other. 
The  girl's  one  hand  rested  on  Lady 
Eainham's  shoulder,  caressingly,  for 
the  tie  between  these  two  was  more 
like  the  passion  of  a  first  friendship 
than  the  affection  of  mother  and 
daughter.  Suddenly  Cecil  pointed 
down  tlio  page  and  said  something 
in  a  whisper,  and  Lady  liainham 
turned  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
smile. 

As  he  saw  the  look,  just  such  a 
thrill  went  through  Sir  Hugh's  heart 
as  he  ha<l  felt  when  she  came  to  him 
twelve  years  ag(j  to  give  him  his 
answer.  No,  time  had  not  done  her 
so  much  wrong  a.^^  it  had  to  himself, 
and  there  was  one  hope  in  whi(;h 
she  had  never  disappointed  him — her 
care  for  his  daughter. 

'  For  her  sake,'  ho  said  that  night 
when  Cecilia  was  gone, '  I  am  always 
grateful  to  you.' 

But  he  did  not  wait  for  any  reply. 
He  never  did.     Perhaps  ho  might 


not  have  got  ono  if  ho  had  ;  or  per- 
haps he  thouglit  the  time  had  gono 
by  for  any  change  to  be  possible. 

Lady  Kainham  looked  from  tho 
window  tho  next  morning  and  saw 
Cecil  under  a  tail  laurel,  reading 
something.  And  the  sun  had  come 
out;  there  was  a  twittering  of  birds 
in  the  shniblx-ry,  and  the  sky  was 
all  flecked  with  tiny  white  clouds. 
It  was  Valentine's  Day,  and  Lady 
Rainham  knew  that  the  girl  was 
reading  over  again  the  one  whicti 
Sir  Hugh  had  handed  her  with  such 
a  troubled  face  at  the  breakfast 
table.  What  did  that  unquiet  ex- 
pression mean  ;  and  why  did  Cecil, 
when  she  saw  it,  look  from  him  to 
herself,  Lady  Rainham,  fold  uj)  her 
packet  hurriedly  and  put  it  away  ? 

It  meant,  on  Sir  Hugh's  part,  that 
he  knew  what  it  was  and  didn't  like 
it;  that  he  could  not  help  thinking 
of  his  life,  doubly  lonely,  without 
the  child.  But  this  never  occurred 
to  his  wife.  Presently  some  one 
joined  Cecil  in  the  laurel  walk,  and 
though  of  course  La<ly  Rainham 
could  not  hear  their  words,  she 
tui-ned  instinctively  away  from  the 
window. 

Cecil  was  saying  just  then, '  No,  it 
isn't  likely.  Who  should  send  me 
valentines  ?  They're  old-fashioned, 
vulgar,  out  of  date.  Charlie,  mind 
I  won't  have  any  more.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Because — I'm  serious  now  — for 
some  reason  or  other  they  don't  like 
my  having  them,'  said  Cecil,  motion- 
ing towards  the  house.  '  And  it's  a 
shocking  thing  to  eay,  but  I'm  sure 
there's  sometliing  not  straight 
between  papa  and  Lady  Rainham, 
some  misunderstanding,  you  know, 
I'm  sin-e  that  they  are  dreadfully 
f(jnd  of  each  other,  really ;  but  it's 
all  so  strange;  I  do  so  want  to  do 
sometliing  tliat  would  bring  it  riglit, 

and I  shall  have  nothing  to  say 

to  you  till  it  is  right.' 

*  Cecil  1' 

'  I  mean  it.  I  am  a  sort  of  go- 
Ixitween;  no,  not  that  exactly;  l)ut 
they  both  care  for  me  so  much. 
They  don't  freeze  up  when  I'm 
there.  I  can't  fancy  them  without 
me ;  it  would  Ik;  terrible.' 

'  But  Cecil,  you  promised ' 

'  No,  I  didn't.     And  if  I  had,  I 


A  Forgotten  Valentine. 


125 


shouldn't  keep  it,  of  course ;  that  is, 
you  wouldn't  want  mc  to.  It  would 
kill  papa  to  lose  me,  and  as  to  Lady 
Rainliam,  why  I  never  cared  for  any 
one  so  much  in  all  my  life.  I  didn't 
know  it  was  in  me  till  she  woke  it 
up.  You  remember  what  I  used  to 
say  about  her  eyes.  They  are  just 
like  that ;  like  a  beautiful  deep  pool ; 
all  dark,  you  know,  till  it  draws  you 
close  and  makes  you  want  to  know 
so  much  what  is  underneath.' 

Here  Lady  Rainham  came  to  the 
window  again,  but  the  two  figures 
had  passed  out  of  the  laurel  walk, 
and  she  saw  them  no  more. 

In  the  afternoon  Cecil  went  as 
usual  to  her  father's  study,  but  he 
was  stooping  over  a  book  and  did  not 
notice  her.  He  was,  in  fact,  thinking 
the  thought  that  had  troubled  him 
in  the  morning,  but  Cecil  fancied  he 
was  busy,  and  looked  round  to  see 
what  mischief  she  could  do.  It 
flashed  upon  her  that  here  was  a 
fine  opportunity  for  the  old  chest, 
and  so  she  seated  herself  on  the 
carpet  and  began  her  rummage. 
Presently  Sir  Hugh,  hearing  the 
rustle  of  papers,  looked  round. 

'  I  should  like  to  know  who  is  to 
be  my  fairy  Order/  he  said, '  amongst 
all  that  mess.' 

'  I  will,  papa.  I  shall  give  a  tap 
with  my  wand,  and  you  will  see  it 
all  come  straight.  But  look  here. 
Isn't  this  to  mamma?  It  has  never 
been  opened,  and  it's  Uke— a  valen- 
tine.' 

Sir  Hugh  looked  at  the  large 
'  Miss  Neville '  on  the  envelope,  and 
knitted  his  brows  in  a  vain  effort  to 
remember  anything  about  it.  He 
couldn't.  It  was  very  strange.  He 
fancied  he  knew  the  writing,  but  yet 
could  not  tell  whose  it  was — cer- 
tainly not  his  own — nor  recollect 
anything  about  the  packet.  He 
considered  a  little  and  then  said. 
*  You  had  better  take  it  to  her.' 

He  took  a  pen  and  wrote  on  the 
cover  '  Cecil  has  just  found  this 
amongst  my  old  papers.  I  have  no 
idea  how  or  when  it  came  into  my 
possession,  neither  can  I  make  out 
the  hand,  though  it  doesn't  seem 
altogether  strange.  Perhaps  you 
can  solve  the  mystery.' 


CHAPTER  IIL 

ITS   MESSAGE — AFTER   MANY  DAYS. 

It  was  in  verse,  as  Frank's  valen- 
tines had  always  been  ;  halting,  and 
with  queer  rhymes  and  changes  of 
measure.  It  was  full  of  the  half 
humorous  tenderness  of  quiet 
friendship ;  and  it  ended  with  a  hope 
that  she  would  make  '  old  Hugh ' 
haiDpier  than  his  first  wife  did  ;  that 
was  if  she  accepted  liira ;  and  with  a 
demand  for  her  congratulations  upon 
his  own  approaching  marriage ;  since 
he  was  'the  happiest  fellow  alive' 
and  couldn't  keep  the  news  from  her, 
though  it  was  a  secret  from  all  be- 
side. 

And  the  evening  grew  old;  the 
white  flecked  sky  turned  colder,  and 
the  moon  came  out.  But  Lady 
Rainham  sat  with  this  voice  from 
the  dead  in  her  hand,  motionless ; 
full  of  humiliation  and  remorse. 
And  she  was  thinking  of  many  years 
of  bitterness  and  sorrow  and  pride ; 
and  of  a  heavy  sacrifice  to  a  myth, 
for  she  had  never  loved  him.  And 
her  husband — whom  she  did  love — 
whom  she  had  so  wronged— how 
was  she  to  atone  to  him  ? 

By-and-by  the  door  opened  and 
Cecil  stole  in.  And  she  saw  Lady 
Rainham's  face  turned  towards  the 
window  with  the  moonbeams  light- 
ing it,  and  thought  she  had  never 
seen  anything  so  beautiful  in  her 
life. 

'  Mamma,'  she  said,  softly,  '  why 
don't  you  come  down?  We  are 
waiting,  papa  and  I;  and  it's  cold 
up  here.' 

'  I  will  come,'  said  Lady  Rainham ; 
but  her  voice  was  strange.  Cecil 
knelt  down  beside  the  chair  and 
drew  her  mother's  arm  round  her 
neck. 

*  How  cold  you  are !  Dear  mamma, 
is  anything  the  matter  ?  Cannot  I 
comfort  you?' 

Lady  Rainham  bent  down  and 
held  her  in  a  close  embrace. 

'  My  darling,  you  do  always.  I 
cannot  tell  whether  I  want  comfort 
now  or  not.  I  am  going  down  to 
your  father,  and  Cecil,  I  must  go 
alone ;  I  have  something  to  say.' 

She  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  straight  up  to  where  her 
husband  sat  listlessly  in  his  chair  at 


126 


Visils  in  Country  Houses, 


the  window.  ITo  started  wlieii  lio 
sjiwher.nndpaiilsometliinj^liurricdly 
alK)ut  iiiif::ing  for  liglits,  but  she 
stopped  liiiu. 

'  It  will  Ih)  better  thus,  for  what  I 
Iiave  to  say.  nup;li,  I  have  come  to 
ask  your  forpivtiiess.' 

Sir  Ilugli  did  not  answer.  Tho 
speech  took  him  by  surprise,  and 
she  had  never  called  him  IIuuli  be- 
fore, since  their  marriage.  lie  had 
time  enough  to  tell  himself  that  it 
was  only  another  mockery,  and 
would  end  in  tho  old  way. 

But  standing  there,  with  Frank's 
letter  in  her  hand,  she  told  him  all, 
not  sparing  herself,  and  then  asked 
if  he  could  ever  furgivc  her.  She  was 
not  prepared  for  the  gi-eat  love  which 
answered  her;  which  had  lived 
unchanged  through  all  her  coldness 
and  repulses ;  and  which  di'cw  her 


to  him  clo<=er  now  perhaps  than  it 
might  have  done  if  her  pride  had 
never  suffered  under  these  years  of 
wretchedness. 

Cecil  never  know  exactly  what 
had  happened  ;  but  when  her  father 
put  his  arm  round  her  and  called 
her  his  blessing,  -she  looked  up  at 
him  with  an  odd  sort  of  conscious- 
ness that  in  some  way  or  other  the 
old  valentine  found  in  her  rummaw 
amongst  his  papers  had  to  do  with 
the  change  she  saw.  And  it  was 
her  doing.  So  she  made  np  her 
wilful  mind  straightway  to  exult  and 
triumph  over  the  fiict  to  poor 
Charlie  ;  and  then,  if  ho  wanted  to 
send  her  another  next  year — why, 
after  a  proper  amount  of  teasing  and 
suspense,  which  was  good  for  him 
and  kept  him  in  order,  she  would 
perhaps  say  that  ho  might 


VISITS  IN  COUNTRY  HOUSES. 


Ko.  II. 


WHEN  Mrs.  D and  her  son 
seiDarated  after  the  London 
season,  each  bent  upon  as  full  an 
enjoyment  of  country  life  as  could 
be  obtained,  they  made  a  comjiact 
to  acquaint  each  other  with  their 

experiences.     Mrs.  D fulfilled 

her  i)art  of  the  contract  in  the  letter 
which  .'^ho  wrote  to  her  son  Arthur 
from  the  Garringtons,  in  which 
she  described  very  vividly  one 
phase  of  society  in  country  houses. 
Arthur's  fir.st  visit  was  to  one  of  his 
oldest  friends,  who  was  a  millionaire 
and  a  large  landed  proprietor  in  the 
^Vest  of  England.  Sir  Archil lald 
Edmonstono  had  been  Arthur's 
friend  at  Eton  and  at  Oxford,  and 
now  it  rarely  happened  that  either 
of  them  went  to  liiclimond,  or  Ascot, 
or  Ep.som,  or,  in  fact,  any  party  of 
pleasure  in  which  the  other  was  not 
his  companion.  Scarcely  a  day 
pa.s.sed  without  their  mteting  either 
at  their  respective  homes,  or  in 
Picjtten  Row,  or  at  their  clulxs.  No 
brothers  were  ever  more  insepa- 
rable; and  the  first  move  which 
Arthur  made  out  of  Eondon  was  in 
the  direction  of  Garzington   Hall, 


where' he  was  to  pick  tip  Sir  Archi- 
bald and  accompany  him  to  Scotland. 
Garziiigton  Hall  was  a  large  mo- 
dern house,  situated  in  the  luid.st  of 
a  fine  old  park  which  had  belonged 
to  the  Edmoustones  for  gene  rations. 
It  was  a  place  to  be  proud  of,  for  it 
was  very  beautiful,  surrounded  by 
the  most  magnificent  woods,  and, 
from  .some  points,  commanding  very 
fine  views  of  the  sea,  which  was 
about  eight  miles  off  as  the  crow 
flies.  Sir  Archibald  was  about  a 
year  older  than  his  friend.  His 
house  was  still  the  home  of  his 
brother  and  sisters,  who  did  all  they 
could  to  make  it  plea.'^ant  to  their 
brother  and  his  friend.s.  Hede.'^erved 
this  of  them,  for  there  never  wa;;  a 
more  dutiful  son  nor  a  kinder 
brother;  and  his  great  wish  was 
that  when  he  came  of  ago  there 
should  be  no  change  in  the  old 
ways.  Often  had  his  mother  ro- 
moiistmted,  saying  it  was  better  lor 
her  to  get  out  of  the  way  iietimcs 
K'fore  his  wife  came  to  turn  her 
out;  to  which  remon.strancc  he  in- 
variably replied,  '  Time  enough, 
mother,  time  enough.    I  love  my 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


127 


liberty  too  well  to  part  with  it  just 
yet.' 

The  Edmonstone  family  consisted 
of  three  sisters  and  a  younger 
brother,  who  was  still  at  Eton. 
They  were  a  racketting  lot.  Two  of 
the  sisters  were  *  out,'  and  the  third 
and  youngest  on  the  very  verge  of 
that  interesting  moment  in  every 
young  lady's  life,  when  she  bids 
adieu  for  ever  to  the  school-room 
and  mixes  in  the  gay  and  giddy 
world.  They  were  rather  '  fast,'  and 
rather  noisy ;  greater  favourites  with 
the  gentlemen  than  with  those  of 
their  own  sex,  who  were  somewhat 
afraid  of  them.  They  could  ride 
well,  and  across  country,  too,  some- 
times; they  could  pull  an  oar  across 
the  lake  which  formed  the  southern 
boundary  of  the  garden ;  they  could 
skate,  and  had  been  known  to  shoot, 
and  were  not  bad  shots  either.  They 
were  almost  invincible  at  croquet; 
and  the  knack  with  which  they  sent 
their  adversaries'  ball  flying  across 
the  ground  was  the  envy  of  many 
of  the  gentlemen.  They  could 
play  at  billiards,  too ;  and  yet  the 
more  feminine  accomplishments  of 
singing  and  drawing  had  not  been 
by  any  means  neglected.  Their 
mother.  Lady  Theodosia,  was  a  very 
clever  woman — rather  blue,  but  de- 
cidedly clever  and  original,  and 
with  a  horror  of  conventionalisms 
which  prevented  her  seeing  any 
objection  to  many  of  the  amuse- 
ments in  which  her  daughters  ex- 
celled, but  for  which  many  of  her 
friends  blamed  her  and  them  behind 
their  backs,  denouncing  them  as 
man-ish,  unladylike  and  noisy  girls, 
and  congratulating  themselves  and 
thanking  Heaven  and  blessing  their 
stars  that  their  daughters  had  more 
regard  for  the  convenances  of  society 
and  for  what  they  called  '  decorum.' 
But  the  Miss  Edmonstones  were  as 
good,  honest,  warm-hearted,  and 
generous  girls  as  could  be  found, 
singularly  free  from  the  petty  jea- 
lousies which  disfigure  so  many  of 
their  own  age  and  sex.  Nor  were 
they  by  any  means  devoid  of  talent ; 
tliey  inherited  a  fair  share  of  their 
mother's  cleverness,  and  could  con- 
verse as  pleasantly  and  rationally  as 
most  people  and  much  more  plea- 
santly than  most  girls  of  their  age. 


They  were  free  from  mauvrme  honte, 
and  yet  by  no  means  free  and  easy. 
Devoted  to  their  brother,  they  were 
always  ready  for  any  fim  of  his  sug- 
gesting, confident  that  he  never  would 
mislead  them  into  doing  anything 
that  was  really  unbecoming,  or  could 
compromise  them  in  the  remotest 
degree.  Such  was  the  family  by 
whom  Arthur  was  always  well  re- 
ceived as  one  of  their  brother's 
oldest  and  best  friends.  At  this 
time  there  was  a  large  gathering 
for  certain  cricket  matches  which 
usually  came  off  about  this  time. 
To  make  them  a  more  popular  in- 
stitution in  the  neighbourhood,  Lady  ' 
Theodosia  collected  as  many  young 
people  together  as  she  could,  and 
while  the  days  were  devoted  to 
cricket,  which  was  anxiously  watched 
by  crowds  of  neighbours  and  guests 
for  whose  accommodation  marquees 
had  been  conveniently  placed,  the 
evenings  were  spent  in  tableaux  and 
dancing,  which  left  little  time  for 
repose,  and  made  Garzington  Hall 
the  most  popular  place  in  the 
county.  All  the  country  belles 
looked  forward  to  these  annual 
gatherings  and  festivities  as  their 
*  red-letter  days ;'  and  as  specula- 
tions ujion  them  were  the  general 
theme  of  conversation  before  they 
took  place,  so  their  reminiscences 
were  canvassed  over  and  over  again. 
It  was  fromJGarzington  that  Arthur's 
first  letter  was  dated. 

'My  dearest  Mother, — You  are 
wondering  why  I  don't  write,  and 
have  been  abusing  me  like  a  pick- 
pocket for  my  silence;  but  if  you 
only  knew  what  we  have  been  doing 
day  after  day  your  wonder  would 
turn  altogether  the  other  way.  Even 
now  I  am  writing  at  4  a.m.  with 
only  one  eye  open,  the  other  being 
fast  asleep,  for  I  am  dead  tired,  and 
if  I  had  any  time  to  think  about 
anything  I  dare  say  I  should  find 
out  that  I  had  every  conceivable 
ache  that  over-fatigue  can  produce. 
But  don't  let  your  maternal  heart 
become  anxious  on  my  account.  I 
am  very  well,  though  nearly  worn 
out  with  the  endless  racket  of  this 
place.  Cricket  by  day  and  dancing 
by  night  leave  one's  legs  very  little 
time  to  rest.     Luckily,  Lady  Theo- 


128 


Visits  in  Couiitnj  Iloiiset. 


dosia  is  very  niercinil,  and  gives  us 
somo  law  at  breakfast-time.     I  am 
geniTally  tlio  last,  and,  if  I  dared, 
would  be  later  still,  for,  somehow,  I 
am  more  tired  wlien  I  get  up  tlian 
when  I  go  to  bed.     At  about  11.30 
the   wickets  are   pitched,  and    by 
12  o'clock  wo  are  at   work.     The 
weather  has  Wvn  fine,  and  almost 
too  hot.     Unluckily,  1  have  always 
been  on  the  losing  side,  but  we  have 
had  capital  matches.     You  will  care 
more  for  a  description  of  the  folk, 
their  names,  weights,  and  colours, 
than  for  any  account  of  the  matches, 
which  are  the    engrossing  subject 
here;  and  yet  I  think  you  will  like 
to  know  the  sort  of  life  it  is.    There 
has  been  a  cricket  match  every  day, 
and  as  it  generally  lasts  till  dressing- 
time  there  is  really  very  little  time 
for    anything  else.      Then    dinner 
is    succeeded    by  preparations    for 
"  tableaux,"  which  are  in  their  turn 
followed  by  dancing.      I  honestly 
confess  that  I  think  this  is  too  much 
of  a  good  thing.     On  one  or  two 
occasions,  when  the  cricket  was  over 
sooner  than  usual,  we  were  instantly 
had  in  request  for  croquet  matches, 
in   which   the   ladies  certainly  ex- 
celled.    Theo.   Edraonstone  is  the 
best  croquet-player  I  ever  saw.     I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  how  well 
she  put  down  that  conceited  young 
puppy  Parker.     It  was  as  good  as  a 
play.    You  must  know  that  "  Happy 
Parker,"  as  ho  is  called,  con.siders 
himself  an  awful  swell.     He  is  rich, 
rather  good-looking,  and  has  licen, 
I  am  told,  the  spoilt  child  of  fortune. 
He  is  in  the  Llues,  and  is  made  a 
fuss  with   because  he  lias   lots  of 
money,  good  horses,  good  shooting, 
and  a  good  temper.     He  thinks  the 
whole  world  is  ready  to  bo  his  hum- 
ble servant.     Ho  had   never   been 
at  Garzington  iMjfore,  and  scarcely 
knows  Edmonstone,  never  saw  Lady 
Theodosia,  and  was  once  introduced 
to  the  second  girl,  Nina,  who  liolds 
bim  in  special  aversion.     I  never 
saw  any  one  so  cool,  free  and  easy, 
and  ofT-hand  as  he  is.     Ho  swaggers 
about  as  if  he  was  l)cnt  on  showing 
off  his  paces,  and  behaves  as  if  ho 
was  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the 
family  instea  1  of  what  he  is,  almost 
a  stranger.     One  night,  when  Theo. 
Edmonstone  had  been  looking  after 


somo  of  the  guests,  and  had  been 
getting  partners   for  some!  of    her 
country  neighbours,  and  was  stand- 
ing alone  and  a])art  from  the  dancers, 
"  Happy  Parker"  comes  uj)  with  an 
air  and  a  grace,  and  in  a  cool,  olT- 
liand  way  says  to  her,  "  You're  doing 
nothing;  would  you  like  to  danco 
with  me?    Come  along."    To  which 
she  quietly  replied,  looking  him  full 
in  the  face,  "No  I  thank  jou;  that 
would  indeed  bo  one  degree  worse 
than  doing  nothing."     He   looked 
awfully  sold  ;  but  he  bad  found  his 
match,  for  she  is   the  last  girl  to 
stand  any  nonsense  of  that  sort,  and 
it  is  time  for  him  to  be  brought  to 
his    bearings.      You    talk    of   not 
having  a  moment  to  yourself.     Like 
]\Iiss    Miggs,     you    consider    you 
are  always  toiling,  moiling,  never 
"giving  satisfaction,  never  having 
time  to  clean  yourself— a  potter's 
wessel ;"  but  what  would  you  think 
of   this    life?    It   would    kill    the 
strongest  man  in  no  time  at  all,  and 
would  flog  Banting  out  of  tl)c  field. 
You    aro    hunted   from    cricket  to 
croquet,  from   croquet  to  tableaux 
and  charades,  and  then  to  dancing, 
and  the  intervening  time  is  devoted 
to  dressing  and  dining,  and  you  aro 
lucky  if  you  get  to  bed  by  4  o'clock 
A.M.;  for,  after  the  ball,  we  men  ad- 
journ to  the  smoking-room,  where 
we    wind   up   tho    festivities   with 
cigars  and  cooling  beverages,  and 
talk  over  the  events  of  the  day,  and 
criticise  some  fair  dchutdntr  who  has 
blos.somed  for  the  first  time  at  the 
Garrington  Ball.     To-night,  the  last 
of  the  series,  we  wound  up  with  Sir 
Roger  do  Covcrley,  sang  God  save 
the  Queen  and  Jolly  Dogs  all  in 
chorus,  and  gave  sundry  cheers  for 
Lady  Theodosia  and  the   house  of 
Edmonstone. 

'  But  now  about  tho  "  other  folk." 
The  hou.so  has  been  as  full  as  it  can 
hold,  and  several  men  sleep  over  the 
stables,  your  humble  servant  among 
the  number.  Lord  and  Lady 
Camelford  and  th(ir  son  and  daugh- 
ter, Lady  Blanche  Boss  and  her 
husband.  Lady  Georpina  Bojich  and 
her  two  daughters.  Ix;side3  the 
Thompsons,  tho.«;o  very  pretty  I\[is8 
Naslies,  and  Lord  and  I>ady  p'air- 
iight,  and  some  country  neiglibours. 
There  are,  of  courho,  a  l<jt  of  men. 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


129 


"  loose  men  "  as  Lady would 

call  them,  some  of  whom  are  in- 
vited    because     of   their    skill    at 
cricket.    Tom  Lee  and  young  Dry- 
stix  are  among  the  number.     As 
usual,  Tom   Lee  is  the  autocrat  of 
the  cricket-field,  the  ball-room,  and 
smoking-room.     lie  lays  down  the 
law  in  the  most  insufferable  manner, 
and  considers  no  one  has  any  right 
to  do  anything  of  any  kind  without 
his  permission.     1  cannot  imagine 
why   he  is  asked   everywhere,  for 
very  few  people  like  him,  as  his  cool 
indifference  with  regard  to  the  likes 
and     dislikes    of    his    neighbours 
almost   amounts   to    impertinence. 
His  success  last  year  when  he  was 
on  the  Northern  Circuit  has  made 
him  more  unbearable    than   ever. 
But  as  he  is  too  unpleasant  a  subject 
to  dwell  upon,  I  will  tell  you  about 
the  tableaux.    Lady  Fairlight  and 
the    youngest   of  the    three    Miss 
Nashes  were  the  belles.     You  can- 
not imagine  anything  more  beautiful 
than  Lady  Fairlight  as  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots  at  her  execution.     Lady 
Camelford's  daughter  and  the  Miss 
Eoaches  were  her  maids  of  honour, 
and  young  Lord  Tufton  was  the 
executioner.      Lady  Fairlight  was 
dressed  in  black  velvet.     In  the  first 
tableau  she   appeared  absorbed  in 
prayer  while  her  maids  of  honour 
stood  weeping  around  her ;  and  in 
the   second  she  was  in  the  act  of 
giving  her  "beads"  to  one  of  her 
ladies.    I  never  saw  anything  like 
her  expression  in  this  last  scene.   It 
was  a  combination  of  resignation  at 
her  own  sad  fate  and  tender  com- 
passion for  those  she  was  about  to 
leave  for  ever.     The  next  tableau 
was  from  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock," 
in  which  the  youngest  of  the  Nashes 
represented  Belinda.    She  was  ex- 
quisitely dressed,  and  as  her  fore- 
head is  low   the  effect  of  her  hair 
being  drawn  off  away  from  her  face 
was  exceedingly  good,  especially  as 
she  has  a  good  brow.     Altogether 
with  powder,  and  flowers  jauntily 
set  on  the  top  and  side  of  the  moun- 
tain of    coiffure  which  she   wore, 
and    with  patches,    and   sac,    and 
short  petticoats  displaying  a  small 
foot  and  neat  ankle,  she  was  as 
lovely  a  sight  as  could   be  seen. 
Tom  Lee  did  his  part  well.    His 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  i.xii. 


unwhiskered  face  came  in  admirably 
for  such  a  tableau.  Ho  was  capitally 
dressed,  and  so  were  Miss  Nash's 
two  sisters,  who  filled  up  the  back- 
ground. The  last  tableau  was  of 
Elaine  as  she  was  borne  along  in 
her  barge.  Ellen  Pendarve's  fine 
outline  came  out  beautifully  as  she 
lay  upon  the  bier,  and  Lord  Camel- 
ford's  masculine  head  and  features 
with  the  addition  of  a  snowy  beard 
well  represented  the  "dumb  old 
servitor"  who  steer'd  th'j  dead 
"  upward  with  the  flood." 

•  In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The    letter — all    her   bright    hair    streaming 

down — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Down  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear- featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  though  she  smiled.' 

I  am  not  sure  it  was  wise  to  finish 
the  tableaux  with  one  so  sad — for  it 
was  not  easy  to  shake  off  the  im- 
pression quickly,  and.it  was  only  by 
a  kind  of  an  effort  that  we  returned 
to  jollity.  However,  we  did  manage 
to  recover  ourselves,  and  were  as 
jolly  as  ever,  dancing  away  merrily 
to  fiddle  and  fife.  Our  charades 
were  even  better  than  the  tableaux  ; 
and  some  of  the  acting  was  admirable. 
Young  Drystix  made  a  first-rate 
conspirator  in  "Counterplot,"  and 
Lord  Tufton  a  capital  man  milliner. 
The  passages  between  him  and 
Theo.  Edmonstone  were  admirable. 
"  The  Peer,"  as  Tom  Lee,  his  bear 
leader,  calls  him,  has  a  quantity  of 
black,  greasy- looking  hair,  a  bright 
colour,  good  features,  and  an  inci- 
pient moustache,  which  he  is  al- 
ways manipulating  tenderly;  and 
altogether  he  well  represented  that 
peculiar  class  of  mankind  which  is 
devoted  to  measuring  tapes  and 
laces  by  the  yard  and  to  proffering 
their  goods  to  the  fair  sex  in  the 
most  irresistible  manner.  It  seemed 
to  me  quite  his  metier  to  unfold 
silks  and  satins,  and  assure  the  pur- 
chasers that  they  were  "  the  newest 
style,"  the  "most  fashionable," 
"quite  distinguished,"  &c.,  &c. 
Theo.  Edmonstone's  contemptuous 
banter  of  him,  and  reckless  incon- 
siderateness  in  making  him  display 
his  goods,  without  the  remotest  in- 
tention of  purchasing  any,  exhibited 


180 


Visits  in  Country  Houses, 


to  the  life  tlio  mode  in  which  sorao 
ladies  of  our  ftcquaintaiico  con(hict 
themselves  in  certain  shops  wliich 
profess  to  provide  them  with  all 
thjit  is  rcqnisito  to  their  success 
ami  reputation  in  society.  And 
now,  dear  mother  mine,  I  must  shut 
up  and  f,'et  to  hed,  for  Edmonstone 
and  I  areotY  early  to-morrow  on  our 
way  *o  the  North.  I  will  write  to 
you  again  as  soon  as  I  can,  but  if 
wo  arcf  worked  as  hard  at  Staple- 
ton's  as  wo  have  heen  here,  I  shall 
not  havf  much  time  to  write. 
\Vhat  a  pity  and  a  bore  too,  it  is 
that  some  of  the  kindest-hearted 
and  most  pood-natured  people  in  the 
world  niixke  life  such  a  toil  to  them- 
selves and  their  friends.  There  are 
peoi^le  who  are  always  striving  to 
get  fourteen  pence  out  of  every 
shilling,  and  so  there  are  others 
whose  sole  object  is  to  get  more 
hours  out  of  every  day  than  is 
to  bo  got,  and  so  it  is  all  "  hurry 
scurry  "  after  "amusement  of  some 
kind.' 

Arthur  and  Sir  Archibald  set  off 
early,  and  travelled  as  luxuriously 
and  comfortably  together  as  it  is 
pos.siblo  in  tliis  most  luxurious  ago. 
By  dint  of  proper  precautions,  in 
direct  contravention  of  the  orders 
and  regulations  issued  by  the  direc- 
tors, and  in  contempt  of  tlie  penal- 
ties and  anathemas  annexed  to  any 
infringement  of  those  orders,  the 
two  friends  were  able  to  propitiate 
the  guards  so  as  to  secure  for  them- 
selves the  undisputed  and  undis- 
turbed possession  of  one  compart- 
ment, in  which  they  slept  and 
smolred  and  talked  and  read  as 
they  felt  inclined  ;  and  in  duo  course 
of  time  they  arrived  at  their  desti- 
nation, where  they  had  been  invited 
for  grouse-shooting  and  deer-stalk- 
ing. The  nickname  by  which  'the 
Lodge '  was  known  among  a  certain 
set  of  familiar  friends  was  'Liberty 
Hall,' because  the  owner  and  master 
of  it  piqued  himself  upon  allowing 
every  ono  to  do  just  what  he  liked, 
and  neither  more  nor  less  than  ho 
pleased.  The  l)ce  might  be  as  busy 
as  ho  would,  and  the  drono  ax  idle. 
It  was  from  LilKTty  Hail  that  Ar- 
thur despatched  his  second  letter  to 
bis  mother. 


*  Deaijkst  JroTTiKR, — It  secms  to 
nie  the  world  is  always  in  extremes. 
At  Garzington  wo  were  never  al- 
lowed a  moment  to  ourselves.     We 
were   hunted   from   pillar  to  post, 
never  might  he  sulky  or  indulge 
any  wayward  fancy  of  one's  own ;  and 
here  we  are  allowed  to  do  what  wo 
like,  go  where  we  like,  and  indulge 
any    passing   mood.     I    have  been 
here  a  week,  and  have  very  little  to 
tell  you ;  but  you  will  rail   at  me, 
and    return    to    your    old    charge 
against  all  men,  and  say  that  they 
Ciin  never  be  pleased,  if  1  say  that  I 
do  not  think  the  aKsenco  of  all  rule 
and  law,  as  it  exists  at  "Liberty 
Hall,"    conduces  to  one's   comfort. 
The  fact  i.s,  than  when  the  master  of 
the  house  surrenders  his  right  to 
plan  and  devi.se  for  the  amusement 
of  his  guests,  every  one  is  at  a  loss 
to  know  what  to  do,  and  the  practi- 
cal result  is  that  wo  either  go  about 
amusing    ourselves    in    a   "shilly- 
shally" kind  of  way.   or  else  sub- 
mit to  the  dictation  of  some  ruling 
but  less  scrupulous  individual  who 
forces  his  own  views  upon   others 
as  to  what  is  or  is  not  tlie  thing  to 
bo  done.     We  have  at  this  moment 
an  instance  in  i)oint.    Hervey  Gray, 
a  cousin  of  our  host,  presumes  upon 
his  relationship,  and  absorl)s  all  the 
"  gillies,"  and  directs  us  all   with 
much  more  imperiousne-ss  than  his 
cousin  ever  would  assume.     At  the 
lieginning  of  our  visit  we  were  left 
very  much  to  ourselves,  and   had 
cn('h  of  fls  a  gilly  of  our  own,  and 
whatever  else  we  wanted,  but  there 
was    no   plau— no    combination, — 
and  it  did  not  answer,  especially  as 
the  ma.stcr  of  "  Liberty  Hall  "  is  not 
himself  much  of  a  sportsman,  and 
ha.s  taken  "  the  Lodge  "  more  for  the 
honour  and  glory  of  the  thing  than 
for  his  own  special  lovo  of  sport; 
but   now    Hervey    Gray  rules    us 
with   a  rod  of  iron,  and,   though 
f(^nd  of  shooting,  but  very  ignorant 
of  tho  noble  art  of   deer-stulking, 
lays  down  th(^  law  for  us,   for  the 
keepers,  for  the  gillies,  for  every- 
body and  everything,  and  his  law 
is    not    always  good   or    pleasant. 
Pn   short,  I  am    altogether  rather 
out  of  humour,  and  think  that  it 
is  possible  to   have   too    much  of 
one's  own   way,  and  that   Hervey 


Before  the  Footlights. 


181 


Gray  is  not  a  j?ood  suhstitiito  for 
theJaird  of  "Liberty  Hall." 

'  Arthur  D was  quite  right  in 

saying  that  it  does  not  conduce  to 
comfort  when  the  master  is  not 
master.  It  is  like  an  arch  without 
its  keystone ;  there  is  no  centre,  no 
point  of  union.  The  combination  of 
law  and  liberty  is  rare,  but  where  it 
exists,  it  promotes  happiness.  It 
sounds  almost  absurd  to  use  such 
grand  words  and  ideas  for  the 
expres-ion  of  a  very  simple  fact 
— that  the  pleasantest  houses  are 
those  in  which  the  owners  occupy 
themselves  for  the  comfort  and 
entertainment  of  their  guests,  and 
arrange  for  them  what  shall  be 
done,  and  at  the  same  time  make  it 
quite  appreciable  by  all  that  each 
one  is  at  liberty  to  say  "  yea "  or 
"nay"  according  to   the    bias   of 


his  own  mind.  It  is  diflRcult  to 
steer  clear  of  the  two  opposite  evils 
of  which  Garzington  Manor  and 
Liberty  Hall  are  the  types ;  but 
there  are  houses  in  which  the  gifted 
hosts  and  hostesses  contrive  to  pro- 
vide for  their  guests  whatever  shall 
be  most  conducive  to  their  enjoy- 
ment without  fussiness  or  dictation. 
No  one  is  neglected ;  all  are  consi- 
dered ;  and  life  passes  so  easily  and 
pleasantly,  without  noise  or  confu- 
sion, that  we  thinking  people  are 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  amount 
of  tact,  consideration,  and  fore- 
thought which  they  ought  to 
place  to  the  credit  of  those  who 
make  it  a  i^art  of  the  business 
of  their  life  to  contribute,  as  far 
as  they  can,  to  the  social  enjoyment 
of  their  friends. 

'  Tom  Slendbe.' 


BEFOEE   THE  FOOTLIGHTS; 
or,  ^fectdjc^  oi  ^gtagljau^c  ^octets. 


II. 

THE  PIT  AT  THE  STEAND. 

ILL  you  be  good  enough  to  step 
this  way  ?' 

Taking  our  position  here,  my 
courteous  companion,  while 
the  orchestra  is  playing  that 
wonderful  selection  of  popular 
street  airs  which  forms  the 
overture  to  five  bm-lesques  out 
of  six,  you  will  possibly  object 
that  we  can  see  nothing  of  the 
performance;  but  as  when  we 
visited  Drury  Lane  together  I 
requested  you  to  turn  your 
back  upon  the  stage,  so  here, 
in  the  little  Strand  Theatre, 
I  wish  you  to  be  blind  to  the 
symmetrical  actresses  and 
comic  dances,  while  you  direct 
your  attention  solely,  to  the 
audience.  Your  eyes,  my  aristocratic  friend,  I  perceive,  ore  directed  at 
once  to  the  private  boxes;  but  it  is  not  at  that  portion  ot  the  house  I 
wish  you  to  gaze.  Sink  them,  if  you  please,  lower  and  lower :  pass  over 
the  gentlemen  in  evening  dress,  and  the  ladies  in  oijera  cloaks,  sitting  lan- 
guidly in  the  cushioned  stalls,  and  then  with  your  lorgnette  sweej)  the 


182 


Bffore  the  Footlights. 


front  row  of  those  crowded  peats 
behind.  There!  Now  the  curtain 
has  risen,  anil  the  faces  are,  with  hut 
few  I'xcc'ptiuiis,  tiirnnl  towards  the 
Btiiij;o.  It  is  astruii^'e  motley  collec- 
tion of  individuals,  t'roni  almost  every 
class  of  society,  you  see  bi'fore  you. 
The  ]iit  of  a  theatre  is  a  sort  of 
neutral  groiuul  upon  which  all 
chxsses  may  meet.  The  semi-gen- 
teel go  there,  because  it  is  more  re- 
spectable than  the  gallery ;  the 
young  theatrical  lover,  Ixjcauso  it  is 
cheap ;  and  the  genuine  i>laygoer, 
because  it  is  the  liest  place  for 
seeing  and  hearing  in  the  house. 
Let  us  criticise  some  of  the  charac- 
ters, and  then,  I  think,  you  will 
allow  the  truth  of  my  assertion. 

That  elderly  man  who  has  at- 
tracted your  attention  is,  without 
doubt,  a  higldy  respectable  farmer, 
from  the  midland  counties.  His  sou 
has  told  iiim  what  'jolly  fun'  the 
Strand  ])urlesques  are;  and,  teing 
in  London  for  tiio  first  time  these 
ten  years,  he  has  come  to  see  and 
hear  for  himself  Twenty  minutes 
liefore  the  doors  were  open  lie  took 
up  his  i)osition  in  Surrey  Street.  He 
went  in  with  the  ru.sh,  and  struggled 
into  a  front  place,  and  for  the  half- 
hour  before  the  curtain  drew  up, 
entertained  his  neighbours  by  tell- 
ing them  it  was  nineteen  years  since 
lie  liad  been  inside  a  theatre,  and 
that  i)lays  were  ]:)lays  when  ho  was 
a  boy. 

You  may  liave  noticed,  my  dear 
Lounger,  suffer  me  to  remark,  by 
way  of  parenthesis,  that  the  longer 
the  interval  that  has  elap.sed  since 
the  speaker  has  been  inside  a  theatre, 
tin;  louder  he  Usually  is  in  depreci- 
ation of  the  jiresent  style  of  the 
drama,  and  in  liuneiitations  at  its  de- 
generation; and  if  you  care  to  carry 
the  notion  further,  and  make  a 
broader  application  of  it,  you  may 
safely  lay  it  down  as  a  rule  in  con- 
nection with  the  iJriti.-h  snob  that 
the  less  he  knows  alKjut  a  thing  the 
more  noisily  and  vehemently  he  de- 
preciates it. 

However,  to  return  to  our  el- 
derly man.  Look  at  the  ixrplexcd 
expression  on  his  face.  He  can 
nuike  notliing  of  the  rhymed  jokes 
in  tlie  burlesque,  and  Ls  trying 
to  feiret  out  their  meaning— no  easy 


matter,  my  intelligent  comi)anion, 
even  for  you  at  times,  I  imagine — 
and  behind  him  you  will  jierceive  a 
good-natured  looking  fellow  ex- 
plaining the  jests  and  repeating  the 
puns  until  they  enter  the  thick  head 
of  the  farujer  in  a  confused  and 
mangled  way.     Listen. 

'  What's  that?'  asks  the  country- 
man, in  a  hoarse  whisper.  '  w  bat 
did  that  yt)ung  woman  in  boy's 
clothes  say  ?' 

His  question  is  imheard,  ina  roar 
of  laughter  at  something  on  tlie 
stage,  and  he  repeats  it. 

'  Said  she  was  meal-an'-coaly — ha, 
ha,  liai' 

•He,  he,  he!     Why?' 

'  Don't  you  see— meal-an'-coly — 
melancholy— eh  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  I' 

'  But,  you  know,  1  don't  see  wliy 
slie  should  say  it.' 

'  "Cause  it's  in  her  part.' 

'  Well,  but  I  remember  seeing 
Macrcady  in ' 

'  Hush,'  '  Silence,'  '  Turn  him 
out,'  shout  his  neiglibours.  But 
though  silenced,  l)y  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  I  opine  he  is  still 
struggling  over  that  pun,  though 
there  have  lieen  a  dozen  better  ones 
since.  When  our  bucolic  friend  re- 
turns to  his  native  ]iastuies,  you 
may  rest  assured  that,  in  giving  his 
account  of  the  burlesque  at  the 
Strand,  he  will  have  a  good  deal  to 
say  about  the  actresses,  accomjianied 
by  mysterious  nods  and  .sagacious 
winks;  but  if  questioned  as  to  the 
words,  he  will  pronoimce  a  very  un- 
favourable ojiinicjn  respecting  them. 
See,  however,  there  is  .something  he 
apj)reciates:  it  is  a  song,  the  tune 
of  which  he  has  heard  at  three 
mu.sic  lialls,  and  on  all  the  barrel 
organs,  in  the  week  he  has  been  in 
London  ; — he  recognises  it  as  an  old 
acquaintance,  is  jiroportionately  <le- 
liglited,  and  laughs  lieartily.  But, 
talking  of  laughter,  turn  your  at- 
tention now,  my  ob.serving  friend,  to 
the  woman  who  sits  next  to  him.  1 
will  answer  for  it  there  is  no  one 
enjoying  the  evenings  entertain- 
ment more  than  she.  From  the 
moment  the  curtain  drew  up  a 
broad  grin  settled  on  her  homely 
lace,  wliich  lias  never  left  it  up  to 
the  present  time.  Do  you  observe, 
whenever  the  supernumeraries  are 


Before  the  FootligJds. 


133. 


134 


Before  the  Footliyhts. 


on,  how  iiitoiitly  sho  roganls  a 
}oun^  pretty-lookinpfrirl  diissed  as 
a  jiftpe?  Tluit  page  is  her  daughter, 
and  she  feels  n  mother's  anxiety  in 
her  child  looking  her  best,  and  a 
motlier's  prido  in  her  every  action. 
Most  probably  sho  herself,  in  her 
young  days,  has  trod  tlie  boards  in 
sparkling  array  as  a  magnificent 
but  silent  '  super,'  and  now  is  well 
up  in  all  that  jtertainsto  the  theatri- 
cal world.  It  is  likely  enough  she 
keeps  a  small  shop  somcwiiero  in 
the  neighlK)urhood,  and  exhibits  tlio 
theatre  bills  in  her  window;  and  I 
will  engage  she  could  tell  you  the 
real  names  of  half  the  Miss  Mont- 
niorencys  and  Vavasour's  in  the  pro- 
fession. 

At  the  further  extremity  of  the 
front  row,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
you  will  recognise  a  youth  wo  have 
seen  again  and  again,  or,  if  not  that 
very  one,  his  exact  counterpart. 

He  is  one  of  an  unfortunately 
numerous  class — a  class  generally 
seen  in  connection  with  three-half- 
pemiy  cigars  and  short  pipes,  flashy 
mock  jewelry,  and  dirty,  gloveless 
hands,— one  of  a  class  to  be  met  with 
at  third-rate  luncheon  bare,  at  infe- 
rior music  halls,  and  all  places  of 
low  resort.  He  has,  I  may  pafely 
assert,  a  loud  voice,  a  l)etting-book, 
and  a  taste  for  cheap  tobacco ;  lie  is 
fond  of  coarse  personalities,  which, 
with  liim,  are  equivalent  to  wit ;  he 
is  apt  to  emphasize  every  other  sen- 
tence with  wholly  unnecessary  ex- 
pletives; he  glories  in  being  on 
sufficiently  friendly  terms  with  a 
prizefighter  to  shako  hands  with 
him  on  meeting;  and  he  considers 
the  having  imbil)ed  more  spirituous 
adulterations  than  he  can  walk 
under  a  thing  to  be  proud  of,  and  to 
be  told  as  a  wonderfully  humorous 
incident  in  his  life.  lie  came  in  to 
the  pit  late,  with  a  smirk  and  a 
swagger ;  ho  lias  stared  two  ro- 
spectablo  girls  out  of  countenance  • 
ho  has  pushed  and  elbinved  an  old 
man  from  his  place,  and  hus 
sworn  at  a  woman  who  re(iu(\sted 
liim  to  allow  her  to  pass  before 
him.  Look  at  him  now  as  ho 
up,  whistling,  sDfta  >;<f,  an  accom- 
paniment to  the  air  l>eing  sung  on 
the  stage,  with  his  hanils  in  his 
loongeH  there,  hia  mouth  screwed 


pockets  and  liis  hat  tilted  on  ono 
side, — look  at  him,  and  tell  me  if 
you  do  not  see  a  low  vagabond, 
who,  sooner  or  later,  if  ho  meets  his 
de-serts,  will  tind  his  way  into  ono 
or  other  of  the  London  police  courts, 
lie  is,  in  all  probability,  a  sliopl)oy, 
or,  perhaps,  a  clerk  in  a  tifth-rato 
Jew  bill-discounter's  office;  and  it 
will  bo  well  for  his  emjiloyer  if,  ono 
day,  the  till  is  not  ransacked  to  jmy 
for  those  clipap  flashy  clothes  which 
he  delights  to  wear.  He  would  fell 
you — supposing  ho  could  answer 
your  questions  civilly— that  he  was 
a  '  man  of  the  world,'  that  he  '  knew 
a  thing  or  two,'  and  that  he  was  'up 
to  most  dodges.'  What  do  I  under- 
stand by  such  phrases  ?  By  being  a 
'  man  of  the  world,'  I  understand 
that  he  has  succeedcil  more  or  less 
in  aping  the  vices  of  his  betters ;  by 
'  knowing  a  thing  or  two,'  that  he 
could  tell  you  a  liorse  to  back  for 
the  Derby,  and  could  introduce  you 
to  various  low  scenes  of  clieap  de- 
bauchery ;  and  by  lieing  '  up  '  to 
'  most  dodges,'  that  by  association 
with  sharpers  he  has  become  rather 
their  accomplice  than  their  dupe. 
Phew!  Let  us  turn  away  from 
him,  and  forget  his  mi.sei'able  ex- 
istence. 

See,  there  is  a  nice,  pretty,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl,  a  jileasant  contrast,  in 
truth.  Slie  has l)een  brought  hereby 
that  very  particularly  sheepish-look- 
ing man,  seated  Ixhind  her,  who 
gazes  with  a  pert inacify  wortliy  of  a 
better  cause  at  the  back  of  her  bonnet, 
and  registers  solemn  but  inaudible 
vows  never  to  take  her  to  the  theatre 
again  unless  lu;  can  sit  beside  her 
himself.  Hideous  Jiangs  of  jealousy 
are  preventing  him  from  having  the 
least  enjoyment  of  the  l)urlesque ; 
but  yet,  I  doubt  not,  she,  with  a  few 
words,  will  calm  his  ruffled  temper 
long  before  flu;  omnibus  has  taken 
them  to  Camden  Town,  after  the 
performance  has  come  to  an  end. 

Do  you  see  that  gorgfumsly-attircd 
individual?  1  should  much  like, 
my  dear  Lounger,  here  to  give  you 
some  jiarticnlars  anent  the  natural 
history  of  the  '  swell :'  to  pf)int  out 
to  y(ni  the  i^'culiiirities  of  liis  dress, 
liis  manners,  and  his  language,  and 
then  from  him  branch  off  to  the 
parasite   or    monkey    swell.     This 


Before  the  Footlights, 


135 


latter  is  a  Brummagem  piece  of 
goods,  a  cheap  imitation,  a  lacquered 
copy  of  the  genuine  article ;  and,  as 
is  the  case  with  all  worthless  arti- 
cles, only  bearable  until  the  impo- 
sition is  discovered.  The  monkey 
swell  has  probably  a  nodding  ac- 
quaintance with  some  hanger-on 
to  the  aristocracy,  and  believes  in 
him  to  a  great  extent.  He  drosses 
after  him,  speaks  like  him,  walks 
like  him,  copies  his  gestures,  and 
imitates  his  tastes  with  enough  ex- 
aggeration to  make  himself  ludicrous 
instead  of  a  man  of  fashion.  The 
monkey  swell  is  a  sham  and  au  im- 
position. On  a  salary  of  three 
hundred  a  year  he  endeavours  to 
live  in  the  same  style  as  his  ac- 
quaintance with  three  thousand. 
Shams  are  the  bane  of  this  genera- 
tion. Laudable  ambition  is  well 
enough,  but  why  on  earth  need 
Tom  or  Harry  buy  brass  watch 
chains  of  the  same  pattern  as  my 
lord's  gold  one  ? 

Thank  you,  my  patient  friend ; 
that  yawn  is  not  thrown  away 
upon  me,  and  I  will  take  the  hint. 
My  remarks  on  the  monkey  swell 
were  called  forth  by  that  highly- 
objectionable  individual  with  a  glass 
in  his  eye,  who  is  far  from  com- 
fortable in  the  front  row,  wedged  in 
as  he  is  by  the  crinoline  of  a  pretty 
girl  on  one  side,  and  the  portly  frame 
of  a  middle-aged  gentleman  on  the 
other.  You  may  see  at  a  glance, 
for  all  his  pretentious  airs,  that  he 
is  hardly  the  distinguished  indi- 
vidual he  would  have  us  believe 
him  to  be.  I  dare  say,  if  he  would 
condescend  to  wear  an  apron,  he 
would  make  a  very  good  shopman, 
but  I  am  sure  no  power  on  earth 
could  make  him  a  gentleman.  Do  we 
not  know  a  score  like  him?  Are 
we  not  always  meeting  those  sham 
'swells,'  those  unmitigated  snobs, 
who  never  lose  an  opportunity  of 
trying  to  impress  upon  us  what 
wonderfully  tine  fellows  they  are  ? 

But  enough  of  him :  let  me  direct 
your  attentic  i  now  most  particularly 
to  that  yoL  ig  gentleman  whom 
*  melancholy  a;)pears  to  have  marked 
for  her  own.'  Observe  him  nar- 
rowly, and  I  will  tell  you  his  history. 
His  manners  are  mild,  his  speech  is 
nervous,  his  heart  isj  susceptible, 
and  his  purse  is  light.    It  is  not 


more  than  six  months  since  that  he 
was  the  pride  of  his  native  village. 
Then  he  was  a  mere  lad,  who  had 
never  been  away  from  home  for 
more  than  twenty-four  hours  by 
himself,  and  whose  greatest  dissipa- 
tion had  been  a  tea-gathering  in  the 
village  schoolroom,  where  he  had 
greatly  distinguished  himself  by  his 
ability  in  handing  dishes  and  cups. 
This  was  his  first  great  success  in 
life.  But  time  rolled  on  (as  the 
novelists  say)  and  it  became  neces- 
sary for  him  to  worship  the  world 
and  Mammon,  or,  in  other  words, 
to  earn  his  living  by  becoming 
a  clerk  in  a  merchant's  office. 
Brought  up  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  belief  that  courage,  truth- 
fulness, and  honesty  in  word  and 
action  are  the  characteristics  of 
gentlemen,  he  steered  clear  of  the 
sunken  rocks  of  dissipation  and 
riotous  pleasures,  but,  as  I  have 
told  you,  his  heart  is  susceptible, 
and  scarcely  a  week  passed  by,  after 
his  arrival  in  London,  that  some 
fresh  divinity  did  not  reduce  him  to 
the  verge  of  despair;  and  now,  so 
close  an  observer  as  yourself,  my 
intelligent  companion,  can  see  with 
half  an  eye  that  the  present  object 
of  his  adoration  is  that  young 
lady,  whose  fancy  dress  and  nimble 
bounds  in  that  double  shuffle  have 
just  aroused  the  gallery  to  a  burst 
of  applause  and  a  vociferous  encore. 
See  how  he  follows  her  every  move- 
ment with  despairing  eyes ;  observe 
how  he  clenches  his  fist  when  an 
actor  puts  his  arm  about  her  slender 
waist;  notice  how  he  fingers  the 
bouquet  which  lies  half  concealed 
within  his  hat,  nervous  and  doubting 
about  throwing  it  to  the  present 
object  of  his  affections,  though  he 
selected  it  with  care,  and  paid  for 
it  with  his  savings  this  very  after- 
noon in  Covent  Garden  for  the 
express  purpose.  He  has  already 
picked  to  pieces  many  of  the  choicest 
flowers  it  contains,  the  leaves  of 
which  lie  scattered  at  his  feet,  and 
you  will  be  tolerably  safe  in  pre- 
suming that  he  will  never  summon 
up  either  courage  or  strength  suf- 
ficient to  throw  it  over  fom*  rows  of 
stalls  and  the  orchestra.  If  he  does 
throw  it,  you  may  take  it  for  granted 
that  it  will  be  at  the  worst  of  times, 
and  that  a  contraction  of  the  brow. 


136 


Before  the  Footlights. 


instead  of  a  smilo,  will  reward  him 
for  his  act  of  gallantry. 

As  yon  swoop  tiro  pit,  your  eyes 
will  possiMy  rost  on  tliat  group  of 
men  stan<ling  at  the  back.  They 
came  in  at  half-prico,  and  are  occu- 
pying tiioir  opora-glasses  and  their 
time  in  observing  and  discussing 
the  symmetry  of  their  favourite 
actresses.  They  are  evidently  of 
the  clas.s  known  as  '  fast.'  That  is 
to  say,  thoy  dress  after  one  another 
in  a  certain  style,  they  cut  their 
hair  short  as  a  convicts,  they  fre- 
quent disroi>utal)le  places  of  amuse- 
ment, they  drink  more  than  is  good 
for  them,  they  smoke  moro  than 
they  ought  to  for  health's  sake, 
they  play  cards  and  billiards  for 
higher  stakes  than  they  can  afford, 
and,  worst  of  all,  they  cultivate  a 
spirit  of  cynicism  which  they  do  not 
feel — a  mean,  paltry  spirit  of  sneer- 
ing at  everything  good,  and  crying 
down  everything  they  ought  to 
respect.  You  see  them  there,  at  the 
back  of  the  pit,  commencing  the 
evening ;  when  the  burlesque  is 
ended,  they  will  adjourn  to  some 
music  hall  or  casino,  and  thence  to 
a  West-end  sujiper-room,  probably 
concluding  their  evening's  enter- 
tainment (?)  in  some  still  moro  dis- 
reputable haunt.  They  are  '  sowing 
their  wild  oats,'  they  are  'seeing 
life,'  they  are  '  making  the  most  of 
their  youth,'  their  apologists  say; 
but  whether  their  oats  had  not 
better  remain  unsown,  and  life,  as 
they  view  it,  unseen,  is  a  question 
I  ask,  but  leave  others  to  discuss. 

If  you  wish  to  see  how  a  burlesque 
can  Ix!  enjoyed— enjoyed  for  its  wit 
and  fun,  and  not  for  its  performers' 
sake  alone, — look  at  those  two  boys 
sitting  far  back  there.  They  have 
not  once  turned  their  eyes  from  the 
stage  since  the  curtain  rose;  they 
have  not  lost  a  single  word  that 
has  been  spoken ;  they  have  fol- 
lowed every  step  of  the  comic 
dances,  and  they  have  stamped 
and  clapped  their  hands  in  such 
vehement  applause  a.s  to  call  for  a 
remonstrance  from  that  choleric  old 
gentleman  sifting  behind  them,  who 
is  '  Disgustt^fi,  sir,  positively  di.s- 
Riistcd  at  the  degrailation  of  the 
drama!'  and  woulii  get  out  and  go 
homo  if  ho  were  not  so  tightly 
wedged  in    as    to    render    motion 


next  to  irapopsiblo.  Ho  has  lost 
his  temper  and  his  pocket-handker- 
chief;  he  is  indignant  and  uncom- 
fortable; and  neither  ]\Iiss  Duck- 
ham's  songs,  nor  Mr.  Shuftles 
dancing  can  draw  from  him  a  smile 
or  a  sign  of  approval.  There  is  yet 
another  character  in  the  pit  of  the 
Strand  this  evening  who.se  acquaint- 
ance I  wish  you  to  make.  Ho  is 
a  very  important  character,  too,  in 
his  own  estimation,  and  rarely  con- 
descends to  express  ai)proval  by 
more  than  a  depreciatory  simper. 
Do  you  know  him?  No?  Why  that 
is  one  of  our  best  burlesque  actors 
— at  least  ho  would  bo,  he  say.s,  if 
the  public  would  recognize  amateur 
talent.  His  acquaintance  is  sought 
after  a  good  deal  by  ladies  and 
gentlemen  wishing  to  give  private 
theatricals,  but  without  the  slightest 
idea  how  to  manage  them.  He  sets 
them  right,  appropriates  the  best 
characters  for  himself,  and  rants 
and  raves,  dancing  out  of  time,  and 
singing  out  of  tune,  applauded  to 
the  echo  by  enraptured  guests,  who, 
having  been  told  in  a  mysterious 
whisper  that  ho  is  the  'famous' 
Mr.  Blank,  refuse  to  be  guided  by 
their  own  judgment,  and  boar  trilnite 
to  the  fame  of  one  of  the  silliest  and 
most  absurd  of  would-be  actors  in 
the  country.  Look  at  him  now, 
full  of  self-conceit,  saying  doubtless 
to  himself, '  Put  me  on  these  boards, 
give  mo  a  fair  chance  before  a 
British  public,  and  see  how  I  will 
electrify  them.'  There,  now!  he 
has  turned  and  is  pushing  his  way 
out  of  tho  theatre  in  ap])arent  dis- 
gust.    Good  luck  go  with  him  ! 

I  see  by  the  bill  you  hold  in  your 
hand,  my  dear  I>ounger,  that  we 
have  already  arrived  at  the  last 
scene  of  the  Iturlesquo  ;  so,  ere  you 
shut  uj)  your  glasses,  just  sweep 
round  the  remainder  of  those  pit 
seats,  and  tell  me  who  you  see  lie- 
sides  those  to  whom  wo  have  paid 
particular  attention. 

There,  to  your  left,  is  nn  old  lady 
with  a  ba.'-ket,  from  w I  <'h  peeps  a 
lx)ttlc-neck.  She  has  ;ardly  heard 
a  word  of  the  burl,  sque,  owing 
to  a  quarrel  with  a  mild  young 
gentleman  sitting  next  her,  resj)ect- 
inj.'  the  right  to  a  certain  seat.  You 
will  observe  that  she  is  now  purplo 
with  anger  and  heat,  and  that  her 


The  Two  Pages, 


137 


opponent,  notwithstanding  the  grand 
way  in  which  he  pretends  to  hear 
none  of  her  sarcasms,  is  far  from 
comfortable  in  the  place  he  occupies, 
despite  the  fierce  attacks  of  the 
old  lady.  Behind  them,  again,  is 
another  couple.  They  have  heard 
but  little  of  the  play,  either,  so 
much  have  they  found  to  whisper 
into  each  other's  ears,  disregarding 
the  frowns  and  angry  remonstrances 
of  those  about  them,  and  the  jeering 
allusions  to  a  ring  and  a  clergyman, 
made  by  a  would-be  wag  in  an 
audible  whisper.  Besides  these, 
there  is  a  soldier  with  his  be- 
trothed, a  father  with  his  son,  a 
score  of  young  men  with  eye-glasses, 
a  dozen  young  women  in  hats,  and 
a  very  fair  number  of  middle-aged 
men,  some  stupid,  some  asleep,  but 
many  appreciative.  See  now,  as 
the  curtain  rolls  slowly  down,  how 


old  and  young  alike  clap  their 
hands  together  in  token  of  approval ; 
and  listen  how  the  juniors  shout 
frantically  for  their  favourites  to 
come  before  the  baize  and  bow 
their  acknowledgments.  The  cur- 
tain rises  and  falls  a  second  time, 
the  applause  dies  away,  and  there 
is  a  scuffling  for  hats  and  cloaks, 
and  a  rush  for  the  door.  There  is  a 
farce  to  come  yet.  Shall  we  wait  and 
see  it?    No?    Then  let  us  adjourn. 

I  much  fear,  my  friend,  that  you, 
to  whom  doubtless  the  salons  of  the 
nobility  are  open,  will  have  found 
playhouse  society  in  the  Strand  pit 
hardly  to  your  taste ;  but  take 
courage.  The  Opera  season  will 
soon  commence,  and  in  a  stall  at 
Her  Majesty's  you  shall  reap  the  re- 
ward for  your  patience  this  evening. 

As  I  said  before,  let  us  adjourn 
and  sup  together  at  the  club. 


THE  TWO  PAGES. 

LIKE  a  missal,  all  ablaze 
With  the  gold  and  colours  blended, 
Shine  the  gay  chivalric  days 
In  the  hazy  distance  splendid. 

Maidens  veiled  in  yard-long  hair. 
Knights  in  golden  armour  flashing, 

Glow  of  pennons  in  the  air, 

Gleam  of  falchions  ever  clashing, — 

And  the  volume  to  complete,— 
Volume  lettered  '  Middle  Ages,' — 

Bright  at  every  heroine's  feet 
Lie  illuminated  Pages ! 

Glittering  in  their  iris  hues. 

Hawk  on  wrist,  with  bells  and  jesses. 
Eyes  of  liquid  browns  or  blues. 

Maiden  cheeks  and  maiden  tresses. 

Fond  of  joust  and  fond  of  brawl — 
Dagger  out  ere  word  is  spoken — 

Life  of  bower,  and  life  of  hall. 
Youth's  free  spirit  all  unbroken. 

Singing  to  the  twangling  lute 
Minstrel  ballad  last  in  fashion, 

Till  the  lips  that  should  be  mute, 
Learn  the  parrot-lisp  of  passion. 

Then  beneath  the  pleasaunce  walls, 
,     (Ripe  with  nectarines  and  peaches). 
To  My  Lady's  damozels 
Oft  Sir  Page  the  lesson  teaches. 


138  Tlie  Two  Pages. 

Eyes  upon  a  blushing  face, — 

Notincr,  too,  a  milky  shoulder,-* 
Arm  al)out  a  resting  place 
Might  dismay  a  lover  bolder. 

Of  his  heart  and  its  despair, 

Vowing  much  and  nuich  protesting. 

Till  so  much  of  love  is  there. 
Only  half  of  it  is  jesting. 

Happy  Page,  who  thus  can  move 
In  a  round  of  bright  enjoyment — 

Happy  to  whom  song  and  love 
Represent  life's  sole  employment! 

But  from  this  the  glowing  past 
And  its  splendours  evanescent. 

Let  our  dazzled  eyes  be  cast 
Over  Life's  superior  present. 

'\,^'ith  these  ages  wholly  ripe, 

With  these  days  of  faster  movement 

Comes  a  Page  of  modern  type, 

Showing  every  last  improvement, — 

Comes  a  maiden  whom  we  sing, 

Whom  we  laud  in  songs"  and  sonnets. 

Leads  a  greyhound  by  a  string, 
Wears  the  cream  of  Paris  bonnets. 

At  her  heels  our  iris  Page, 

On  these  days  prosaic  stranded. 

Flashes  buttons,  flashes  gold, — 
Round  his  hat  superbly  banded. 

Banished  from  his  lady's  side. 

He  ignored  and  quite  eschew'd  is,— 

Bears  a  parcel,  pack-thread  tied, 
Carries  home  a  book  from  Mudie's ; 

And  if  softly  in  his  ears 
'  Hither,  Page  !'  the  lady  mutter. 

Tie  that  for  her  hound  she  fears. 
Or  needs  aid  to  cross  a  gutter. 

Or  of  shopping  she  is  tired 

(Seeking  trifles  to  adorn  her), 
And  the  brougham  is  required — 

Waiting  for  her  round  the  corner. 

So  our  sprightly  Page,  at  last 
*  Wholly  changed  in  each  essential. 

Haply  to  atone  the  past. 
Finds  a  present  penitential. 

As  for  love — does  ho  but  own 
Half  the  warmtii  of  bygone  ages. 

To  the  door  lie  would  1x3  shown — 

With  no  mention  of  his  wages.  W.  S. 


^^^^'^^ 


139 


AN  EVENING  WITH  MY  UNCLE. 


HOW  I  first  came  to  know  Uncle 
Gawler,  how  it  happened  that 
our  acquaintance,  at  lirst  of  the  sim- 
plest sort,  ripened  gradually  to  a 
friendship  warm  and  durable,  need 
not  be  here  discussed.  It  is  suffi- 
cient for  the  purposes  of  this  paper 
to  state  that  between  my  uncle  and 
myself  such  a  happy  condition  of 
aflairs  prevails.  The  act  of  parlia- 
ment which  regulates  the  times  and 
seasons  during  which  my  uncle  may 
transact  business  with  his  numerous 
other  poor  relations  in  no  way  af- 
fects me ;    indeed  it  is  more  often 

*  after  seven '  than  before  that  I 
make  my  calls,  and  I  am  always 
■welcome.  The  strong  spring-bolt 
that  secures  the  flap- door  of  my 
uncle's  shop  counter  is  cheerfully 
withdrawn  at  my  approach,  giving 
me  free  access  to  the  sanctum 
beyond — where  the  money-till  with 
its  silver  '  well,'  as  large  as  a  wash- 
ing-bowl, and  its  gold  '  well,'  big- 
ger than  a  quart  basin,  is  always 
ajar ;  where  on  back  counters,  and 
shelves,  and  bunks  are  strewn  rings, 
and  pins,  and  brooches,  and  lockets, 
and  bracelets  (all  solid  and  good 
gold,  as  attested  by  the  grim  glass 
bottle  labelled  '  aquafortis,'  conve- 
niently perched  on  its  little  bracket), 
where  deep  drawers,  open  just  a  little, 
reveal  countless  tiny  and  precious 
packets,  done  up  in  brown  paper, 
and  white  paper,  and  stout  bits  of 
rag,  and  patched  with  a  blue,  or  a 
red,  or  a  yellow  ticket,  to  indicate 
the  number  of  pounds  sterling  that 
have  been  advanced  on  them ;  where 
watches,  gold  and  silver,  lie  heaped 
together  in  a  hving  heap,  as  one 
may  say,  each  one  hobbled  to  a 
pawn  ticket,  and  left  to  die,  but 
not  yet  dead,  but,  faithful  in  the 
discharge  of  its  duty,  clamorously 

*  tick,  tick,  ticking,'  though  nobody 
now  takes  the  least  interest  in  its 
time-keeping,  nor  minds  its  urgent 
whispering  of  the  flight  of  time  any 
more  than  the  angler  minds  the 
gasping  of  the  fish  he  has  just 
landed.  Were  J  a  sentimental 
writer  (which,  thank  goodness,  I  am 
not),  and  this  a  seutimeutal  article, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  a  very  pretty 


paragraph  might  be  written  on 
these  faithful  little  monitors  con- 
signed to  dungeon  darkness  and  the 
stillness  of  death  for  just  so  long  a 
time  as  may  suit  the  convenience  of 
the  tyrant  man.  Torn  from  the 
bosom  where  they  had  so  long  lain 
nestling;  abandoned  by  the  hand 
that  gave  them  life  and  motion, 
there  they  lie,  true  even  unto  death, 
the  uncompromising,  though  some- 
what astonished  '  tick,  tick  '  of  the 
English  lever;  the  plethoric  and 
muffled  tones  of  the  old-fashioned 
'  hunter'  of  the  mechanic ;  the  spas- 
modic whimpering  of  the  wretched 
Genoese,  reminding  one  of — of — 
(not  being  ready  with  a  happy  simile 
I  tm-n  to  Mr.  Gawler,  who  is  church- 
warden, and  who  promptly  suggests) 
cases  of  desertion  on  doorsteps. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  inferred 
from  the  above  statement  of  the 
wealth  in  my  Uncle  Gawler's  pos- 
session that  he  is  as  well-to-do  in 
the  world  as  many  other  of  my  rela- 
tions in  the  same  degree.  He  is  not, 
for  instance,  as  rich  as  my  Uncle  At- 
tenboroiagh,  whose  meanest  place  of 
business  is  a  palace  compared  with 
that  in  which  my  poorer  uncle  carries 
on  his  trade.  Uncle  Attenborough 
affects  plate  glass  and  green  and 
gold  ornamentation,  and  informs' you, 
thi'ough  the  medium  of  off-hand 
httle  notice-boards  in  his  window, 
what  is  his  price — per  peck — for 
pearls  and  diamonds,  and  what  he 
can  give,  per  ton,  for  Australian 
bullion.  Should  the  keeper  of  the 
crown  jewels  call  on  Uncle  Atten- 
borough, and  request  the  fullest 
possible  advance  on  them,  he  would 
no  doubt  be  packed  off  with  a  satis- 
factory '  ticket.' 

Such  matters,  however,  are  alto- 
gether above  Uncle  Gawler.  He 
makes  no  pretension  to  dealing  in 
diamonds,  or  foreign  bullion,  or 
sculpture  or  paintings  by  the  old 
masters.  It  is  a  wonder,  considering 
the  locality  in  which  his  business  is 
carried  on — near  Whitecross  Street, 
St.  Luke's— that  so  much  valuable 
property  is  confided  to  his  keei^ing ; 
and,  doubtless,  the  fact  is  mainly 
due— tii'stly,  to  the  great  number  of 


110 


An  Ecenitig  with  my  Uncle. 


yoais  lie  hna.  been  cstalilislud  ;  and, 
Fecoiuily,  to  tlio  cnnvcDicntarran^'o- 
nunt  of  liis  prmiisos.  It  is  a  corner 
house,  and  the  shop,  wliich  fares  the 
High  Street,  is  an  innocent  jeweller's 
shop,  and  nothing  more.  Tliero  are 
neatly-written  cards  in  tlio  window, 
variously  inscribed,  'jewellery  re- 
paired,' '  watch  glasses  fitted,' 
'  ladies'  eai-s  pierced,'  &c. ;  so  that 
even  though  one  should  happen  to 
ho  seen  entering  Mr.  Cawler's  shop, 
—nay,  even  though  an  inquisitive 
brute  should  bo  mean  enough  to  spy 
from  outside,  and  see  one  liand  liis 
'Dent' to  Mr.  Gawler,  and  rcfbeivo 
in  exchange  for  it  a  neatly-folded  bit 
of  pastel)oard,  the  evidence  of  the 
pawning  would  be  anything  but 
complete;  watch  glasses  will  come 
to  grief,  and  watch  works  need  re- 
pair, and  it  is  the  commonest  thing 
in  the  world  for  the  watchmaker  to 
give  the  owner  a  memorandum,  as 
security  for  his  property.  I  have 
known  follows  in  the  Strand  take 
the  '  Angel '  omnibus  on  purj)OPe  to 
avail  them.selvcs  of  the  services  of 
Mr.  Gawler. 

But  it  is  not  on  watch  and  jewel 
and  trinket-pawners  that  Mr.  Gawler 
relies  for  the  support  of  his  busi- 
nass.  Tlie  street,  of  which  my 
uncle's  shop  forms  the  corner,  is 
one  of  the  most  densely  populated 
streets  in  London.  It  is  a  market 
street,  a  street  of  shops,  abounding 
in  '  courts,' and  '  alleys,'  and  '  yard.s,' 
with  entrances  like  accidental  chinks 
in  tiie  wall,  and  swarming  with  men, 
and  women,  and  children,  as  rats 
swarm  in  a  sewer.  It  is  a  roaring 
street  for  business ;  there  are  tw(  nty- 
tw-o  l)utcliers'  shops  in  it,  seventten 
bakers'  shops,  and  twenty-seven  gin 
sliops  and  beer  shops.  So  it  may 
easily  be  imagined  that  Uncle 
Gawler  does  liis  share  of  trade. 

He  is  well  prej tared  for  it.  Up 
the  street  by  the  side  of  the  inno- 
cent'looking  jeweller's  shop— a  long- 
ish  way  up  the  street— is  a  mean- 
looking  doorway,  that  might  lie  the 
entrance  to  a  back  yard.  That  it  is 
something  more  than  this,  however, 
may  l)eatonceperc<ivcd  by  the  stone 
threshold  wf»rn  tlirou;.di  to  the 
bricks  iMneath,  and  the  doorpost 
paint-rubtifd  and  grimy  of  elbow 
grea.se.    This  is  the  poor  pawners' 


entrance.  It  opens  on  to  a  passage, 
extending  down  the  whole  length  of 
which  is  a  row  of  latched  doons, 
close  together  and  hinge  to  hinge. 
There  are  eleven  of  these  doors,  and 
they  belong  to  as  niany'boxis'  or 
comjiartments  about  four  feet  wide 
and  ten  deep,  boarded  on  each  side, 
and  with  a  portion  of  counter 
(boarded,  of  course,  from  the  top 
downwards)  in  front.  There  is  a 
little  bolt  on  the  inside  of  the  cell 
door,  so  that  if  a  customer  desires 
privacy  he  can  secure  himself  from 
ob.'^ervation  until  his  negotiatitm 
with  the  pawnbroker  is  C()m])leted. 
This  precaution  is— at  least  as  re- 
gards the  daytime— quite  sujjer- 
tluous  ;  for  wIk  n  the  door  is  closed, 
the  closet  is  daik  as  evening,  making 
it  next  to  impossible  for  any  one 
to  recognise  his  neighbour,  except 
by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  I  have 
said  that  each  closet  is  fronted 
by  a  portion  of  the  long  counter 
which  extends  from  one  end  of  the 
pawning  compartmait  to  the  other 
—  I  sliould  rather  have  said  that  it 
is  a  ledge  raised  a  foot  above  the 
level  counter  that  faces  the  cus- 
tomer, the  faid  raised  ledge  being, 
doubtless,  intended  as  a  check 
against  flie  evd  disposed,  who 
miglit  be  tempted  to  advantage 
themselves  of  the  bustle  of  much 
business,  and  walk  off  with  their 
own  or  their  neighbours'  unran- 
somed  goods. 

Against  the  wall  oppo.site  to  the 
boxes,  and  facing  the  middle  one, 
the  'spout'  is  built.  The  '  spout ' 
at  a  pawnbroker's,  as  the  gentle 
reader  will  phase  to  understand,  is 
a  bnxcd-in  space  penetrating  the 
up]i(r  warehou.se  floors,  anil  con- 
trived for  the  more  ready  delivery 
of  pledged  goods;  which  consisting, 
as  they  usually  do  among  j)oor 
folks,  of  wearing  apparel,  and  buot.s, 
and  sho(s,  and  bed-lin(n,  may  bo 
collected  from  their  various  places 
of  stowage  and  bundled  by  the 
dozen  through  the  aperture  in 
question  from  the  toj)  of  fho  house 
to  the  l)ottom.  To  accommodate 
Uncle  Gawler's  extensive  business, 
his  'spout'  was  of  enormous  .size. 
Tho  opening  was  as  largo  as  a 
kitchen  chimney,  and  to  two  sides 
of  it   upright    ladders  were  fixed. 


An  Evening  with  my  Uncle. 


141 


Astrarldlo  over  the  holo  on  the  top 
floor  was  a  windhips  with  a  stout 
rope  aud  a  chaiu  aud  a  couple  of 
hooks  depending  from  it.  This  was 
used  to  wind  up  the  sacksfull  of 
pledged  bundles,  and  no  doubt 
saved  a  vast  amount  of  labour. 
About  the  spare  spaces  (very  few) 
of  Uncle  Gawler's  shop  walls  were 
stuck  various  placards  and  business 
notices :  one  relating  to  the  rates  of 
interest  allowed  by  law;  one  or  two 
relating  to  recent  instances  of  pro- 
secution, and  conviction,  of  persons 
pawning  the  property  of  others 
without  their  permission,  and  of 
other  persons  who  had  endeavoured 
to  foist  upon  the  unsuspecting 
pawnbroker  '  Brummagem '  ware, 
reputed  to  be  honest  gold  or  silver. 
There  were  other  placards  more  or 
less  curious,  but  none  more  so  than 
one  which  in  red  and  conspicuous 
letters,  bore  the  mysterious  an- 
nouncement that  ' there  could  be 
no  parting  after  eleven  o'clock.'  A 
solution,  however,  to  this  mystery, 
and  many  others,  ap])eared  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  I  passed  with 
Uncle  Gawler. 

How  I  came  to  enjoy  that  rare 
privilege  I  will  explain  in  a  few 
words.  Although  my  calls  at  the 
shop  in  St.  Luke's  were  not  unfre- 
quent,  they  had  invariably  taken 
place  on  some  other  day  than  Satur- 
day. It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  call 
and  see  Uncle  Gawler :  he  was 
always  so  filled  with  contentment 
aud  gratitude.  '  How  was  he  get- 
ting on'?'  'Oh,  nicely,  thanky— 
very  nicely ;  a  little  overdone  w'ith 
work,  that's  all:  small  cause  for 
complaint  you  think,  eh,  young 
fellow?  Ah!  but  the  amount  of 
business  to  be  attended  to  in  this 
place  is  enormous,  sir— en-normous!' 
And  then  he  would  cp.st  his  eyes 
towards  the  long  row  of  '  boxes,'  and 
from  them  to  the  mighty  'spout,' 
with  the  cable  and  the  chain  and 
hooks  dangling  down,  and  sigh  a 
pleasant  sigh,  and  jingle  the  keys  in 
his  pocket. 

He  said  this,  or  something  very 
like,  so  often,  that  one  could  not 
help  looking  about  him  for  symp- 
toms of  the  enormous  business  Uncle 
Gawler  made  so  much  of.  Looking 
about  for  these  symptoms  he  failed 


to  discover  them.  Although  there 
was  kept  up  a  pretty  constant  slam- 
ming of  the  box-doors,  and  a  briskish 
clamour  of  '  serve  me,  please,'  '  it's 
my  turn,'  and  'ain't  that  there 
come  down  yet?'  the  eleven  boxes 
were  never  a  quarter  tilled,  and 
never  at  any  time  had  I  dropped  in 
at  such  a  time  of  pressure  that  Mr. 
Gawler  was  unable  to  tuck  his 
hands  under  his  coat-tails  and  gos- 
sip for  half  at)  hour,  vvhile  his  two 
young  men  plodded  along,  the  one 
examining  and  valuing  articles 
brought  to  pawn,  and  the  other 
making  out  the  deposit-tickets  and 
handing  over  the  money,  but  with 
very  little  show  of  excitement.  This 
circumstance,  coupled  with  another, 
viz.,  that  Uncle  Gawler  was  inva- 
riably as  unruffled  as  regards  his 
habiliments  as  though  he  had  just 
dressed  for  an  evening  party,  drove 
me  to  the  conclusion  that  either  the 
worthy  old  gentleman  possessed  a 
marvellous  aptitude  for  getting 
through  an  'enormous  amount' of 
business  with  perfect  ease,  or  else 
that  he  was  slightly  given  to  exag- 
geration. At  last  came  the  eventful 
evening  when  my  unworthy  suspi- 
cions were  vanquished,  and  my  be- 
lief in  Uncle  Gawler  established 
more  firmly  than  ever. 

It  was  a  Saturday  evening  and 
the  time  of  year  was  July.  I  had 
not  met  Uncle  Gawler  for  several 
days,  and  it  happening  that  a  friend 
had  kindly  given  me  an  order  for 
the  admission  for  two  on  the  Adel- 
phi  Theatre,  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  good  opportunity  for  a  manifesta- 
tion of  my  regard  for  him.  It  was 
rather  late, '  but,'  thought  I, '  he  is 
sure  to  be  ready  dressed,  and  he 
will  only  have  to  pop  on  his  hat 
and  we  may  be  off  at  once.'  Enter- 
ing Uncle  Gawler's  shop  I  was  im- 
mediately struck  with  astonishment, 
not  to  say  awe.  The  two  young 
men  were  there — Uncle  Gawler  was 
there,  but  how  changed !  No  longer 
was  he  an  elderly  gentleman  dressed 
for  an  evening  i^arty,  but  a  person 
whose  avocation  it  was  to  put  down 
mob  risings,  to  quell  riots,  to  stop 
prize-fights,  and  who,  calmly  con- 
fident, expected  each  moment  to  be 
called  on.  It  was  his  custom  to 
wear  a  black  satin  stocik  and  a  dia- 


142 


An  Evening  with  nnj  Uncle. 


mond  pin ;  tlioso  were  cast  aside, 
and,  only  for  tlio  ucck-lwiid  of  his 
sliirt,  his  tliroat  was  bare.  Ever 
before  I  had  scon  him  in  a  coat  of 
the  glossiest  bhick ;  now  he  wore 
no  coat  at  all,  but  a  waistcoat 
with  tight  black  hollnnd  sleeves, 
like  a  porter  at  a  paper- warehouse. 
Usually  he  was  particular  as  to  the 
arraiigcmint  of  his  hair,  so  that  the 
side-]iioccs  were  cunningly  coaxtd 
upwards  to  conceal  the  nakedness 
of  his  crown ;  this,  however,  was 
no  time  for  an  indulgence  of  such 
weaknesses,  and  his  stubbly,  iron- 
grey  locks  appeared  in  the  same 
state  of  delightful  confusion  they 
were  originally  thrown  into  by  the 
bath-towel. 

Whatever  was  Mr.  Qawler's  ob- 
ject, it  was  evident  at  a  glance  that 
both  his  young  men  were  prepared 
to  second  him  while  breath  remained 
in  their  bodies.  Like  their  master, 
they  had  thrown  aside  their  neck- 
erchief, but,  imliko  him,  they  were 
without  black  hollai.d  sleeves  to 
their  waistcoats,  and  wore  their 
shirt-sleeves  rolled  back  above  their 
elbows.  And  all  for  what?  Never 
before  had  I  fotind  Uncle  Gawkr's 
shop  so  peaceful.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  one,  the  eleven  boxes  were 
quite  empty,  and  the  exception  was 
provided  in  a  shape  no  more  formi- 
dable than  that  of  a  young  laun- 
dress, who  was  redeeming  a  brace 
of  flat  inms,  and  mildly  remonstrat- 
ing with  Mr.  Gawler's  assistant  con- 
cerning their  condition,  while  the 
young  man,  with  equal  politeness, 
was  endeavouriiig  to  exonerate  the 
firm  from  the  cliarge  of  being 
'  beastly  dami)'  (that  being  the  basis 
of  the  young  woman's  argument), 
but  was  comiK'llcd  ultimately  to 
fall  back  on  the  .saving  clause  printed 
on  every  |ia«n-ticket,  'that  ^Fr. 
Gawler  was  not  answerable  for  moth 
or  rust.' 

'How  do?'  said  Uncle  Gawler. 
'Pretty  time  to  call,  of  all  times  in 
the  week,  upon  my  word!'  Saying 
this,  he  consulted  his  watch,  and, 
apparently  alarmed  to  find  it  so  late, 
immediately  rushed  to  the 'spout' 
and  bawled  up  it,  'Now,  you  lads! 
make  haste  about  your  tea;  there 
isn't  a  niimite  to  spare !' 

'  Why,  what  may  1  e  the  matter?' 


I  asked.  '  Anything  unasnal  about 
to  ha))pen?' 

'Oh  no,  nothing  unusual— the 
regular  thing  of  Saturday  nights,' 
replieil  Uncle  Gawler,  pushing  his 
muscular  arms  further  through  his 
waistcoat-sleeves,  as  though  not  at 
all  afraid  of  the  '  regular  tiling,'  but, 
on  the  contrary,  rather  anxious  for 
its  approach.  '  You  won't  stay,  of 
course,'  continued  he;  'they'll  be 
here  like  a  swarm  of  bees  presently, 
you  know,  and  I  shan't  have  a  mi- 
nute to  myself  for  the  next  live 
hours.' 

At  this  moment  several  of  the 
'  box '  doors  were  heard  to  open  and 
fall  to  again  with  a  slam,  at  which 
signal  j\Ir.  Gawler  started  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  say  good-bye.  It  was 
evident  that  those  who  would  pre- 
sently arrive  like  a  swarm  of  bees 
were  customers.  It  was  for  their 
reception  that  my  uncle  and  his 
assistants  had  prepared  themselves, 
and  taken  off  their  neckcloths  and 
rolled  back  their  sleeves.  My  reso- 
lution was  at  once  taken. 

'Shall  I  be  much  in  your  way  if 
I  stay  for  an  hour?'  I  asked. 

'  i\Iy  dear  fellow!'  began  Uncle 
Gawler,  while  his  two  young  n  e:i 
looked  round  with  astonishment. 

'  I  could  sit  in  the  parlour  and 
look  through  the  window,'  1  sug- 
gested. '  1  won't  disturb  you:  I'll 
sit  in  there  as  quiet  as  a  mouse.' 

'Well,  go  in  if  you  like,'  said 
Uncle  Gawler,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation; 'you'll  soon  be  glad  to  get 
out  again,  I'll  warrant.' 

So  I  went  into  the  little  parlour 
and  took  a  chair  at  the  window  in 
the  wall  that  commanded  a  fair  view" 
of  the  shop  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  Especially  there  was  a  fair 
view  of  the  boxes,  and,  to  my  sur- 
prise, although  but  five  minutes  had 
elapsed  since  the  slamming  of  the 
first  of  the  eleven  doors  ha<l  begun, 
at  least  forty  customers  had  already 
as.scmblcd.  Although,  owing  to  the 
deep  gloom  in  which  the  interior  of 
each  l)ox  was  shrouded,  it  was  difh- 
cult  to  make  out  the  figures  of  the 
customers,  it  was  cnsy  enough  to 
count  their  number,  for  one  and  all 
had  thrust  out  a  hand  containing  a 
small  pack  of  tickets  of  redemption. 
It  was  an  odd  sight  to  Fee  this  long 


An  Evening  with  my  Uncle. 


143 


row  of  grimy  fists  and  tattered  gown 
and  jacket  and  coat-cuflfs  all  poking 
towards  the  shopman  and  beckoning 
him  coaxingly.  However,  there  was 
no  favouritism.  It  was  quite  use- 
less for  the  owners  of  the  gown- 
cuffs  to  address  the  young  man  in 
familiar,  not  to  say  affectionate,  lan- 
guage, calling  him  'David,'  and  even 
'Davy'  ('Davy,  dear,'  one  woman 
called  him),  or  for  the  jacket-cuffs)to 
growl  and  adjure  David  to  'move 
hisself.'  David  had  a  system,  and 
he  well  knew  that  the  least  depar- 
ture from  it  would  be  fatal  to  the 
proper  conduct  of  the  business  of 
the  evening.  Beginning  at  box 
number  one  he  began  the  collection 
of  the  little  squares  ot  pasteboard 
with  both  his  hands,  and  '  hand- 
over-hand,' as  one  may  say,  with 
a  dexterity  only  to  be  acquired 
by  constant  practice,  crying  out 
'  tickets!  tickets!  tickets!'  the  while. 
By  the  time  he  had  perambulated 
the  length  of  the  shop  and  called  at 
all  the  boxes  he  had  gathered  as 
many  tickets  as  his  fists  would  hold, 
and  at  once  turned  to  a  back  counter 
where  stood  John  (the  other  shop- 
man). John  and  David  then  en- 
gaged in  'sorting'  the  tickets,  an 
operation  rendered  necessary  for 
several  reasons.  Some  of  the  tickets 
referred  to  tools  and  flat  irons  and 
articles  of  furniture  too  cumbrous 
and  imwieldy  to  ascend  the  '  spout,' 
and  which  were  accommodated  with 
lodgings  in  the  cellars.  Other  of 
the  pawn-tickets  related  to  wedding- 
rings  and  Sunday  brooches  and 
scarf-pins,  which  were  deposited  in 
the  room  whose  walls  were  mailed 
with  sheet-iron  in  the  rear  of  the 
shop.  Another  reason  why  the 
tickets  should  be  sorted  was  this. 
A  goodly  proportion  of  Uncle  Gaw- 
ler's  customers  were  unacquainted 
with  the  art  of  reading,  and  not  un- 
frequently  tendered  tickets  pertain- 
ing to  goods  in  the  custody  of  another 
'  uncle'  keeping  a  shop  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, an  error  if  not  at  once 
detected  likely  to  lead  to  a  great 
waste  of  time  and  temper. 

The  tickets  sorted,  a  heavy  and 
melancholy  youth,  bearing  a  dark 
lantern,  opportunely  emerged  from 
the  bowels  of  the  premises  through 
a  trap-door  in  the  shop  floor,  and 


took  into  custody  the  tickets  relating 
to  shovels  and  picks,  and  saws  and 
planes ;  while  John  bustled  off  with 
another  lantern  and  the  jewellery 
tickets,  and  David  remained  to 
attend  to  the  'spout'  department. 
Lapping  out  at  the  mouth  of  the 
spout,  and  waving  gently  to  and  fro, 
like  the  busy  tongue  of  the  ant- 
eater,  was  a  long  leather  bag ;  into 
this  David  thrust  his  handful  of 
cards,  and  at  the  same  instant 
briskly  touched  a  bell-handle  fixed 
to  the  side  of  the  'spout,'  and,  with 
a  sudden  jerk,  the  tongue  vanished 
upwards  into  the  maw ;  to  return, 
however,  long  and  lean  as  ever,  and 
dangling  and  wagging  as  though  it 
had  just  caught  the  flavour  of  the 
food  it  was  remarkably  fond  of,  and 
much  desired  some  more. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
Uncle  Gawler  himself  was  mean- 
while idle.  Eedemption  was  the 
order  of  the  evening ;  still,  there 
were  numerous  cases  in  which  it 
was  necessary  rather  by  way  of 
barter  than  by  ready-money  pay- 
ments. As,  for  instance,  Mrs. 
Brown,  being  a  laundress,  has  found 
it  necessary  to  pawn  the  table-linen 
belonging  to  one  of  her  customers, 
and,  not  having  money  at  her  com- 
mand to  redeem  the  same,  she  feels 
it  convenient  to  '  put  away '  the 
shirts  of  another  customer,  and  thus 
make  matters  square.  On  Monday 
she  will  redeem  the  shirts  of  cus- 
tomer number  two,  by  pawning  the 
sheets  of  customer  number  three. 
Or,  again,  as  for  instance,  the 
Browns  are  asked  by  the  Greens  to 
come  and  have  a  bit  o^  dinner  to- 
morrow, and  have  accepted  the  in- 
vitation ;  but  Brown  has  made  a 
bad  week ;  has  not  earned  enough, 
indeed,  to  'get  out'  his  Sunday 
coat  and  the  children's  frocks. 
Brown  is  a  man  who  doesn't  like 
'  to  look  little.'  He  won't  want  his 
working  clothes  till  Monday;  and, 
as  they  will  be  from  home,  they 
won't  miss  the  hearthrug.  Again, 
there  are  exceptions  to  the  riile 
altogether.  Saturday  night  is  a 
ticklish  time  for  poor  mother.  No 
work  this  week — last  week— the 
week  before.  Not  a  single  penny. 
No  dinner  to-morrow— no  dinner 
on  a  Sunday!     Mother   does  not 


144 


An  Evening  ivith  my  Uncle. 


care.  Fatlicr  docs  not  care— much  ; 
but  the  chiklron!  It  is  all  very 
well  to  rnb  alonp;  all  the  week  with 
bread  and  treacle  for  the  mid-duy 
meal,  or,  at  a  jiinch,  with  nothiiip; 
Ixjtween  breakfast  anr.!  an  'early 
tea  ;'  but  it  is  dilTerent  on  Sundays. 
Evtryhwhi  lias  dinner  on  Sunday, 
even  in  a  Whitecross  Street  alley; 
the  atmosj)here  is  hazy  with  the 
steam  of  '  bakings ;'  and  by  two 
o'clock  you  won't  find  a  little  pina- 
fore that  is  not  dinner-stained.  '  It's 
of  no  use/  says  poor  mother, '  a  bit 
of  hot  dinner  must  be  pjot  somehow.'' 
So  she  waits  till  dusk,  and  then, 
slip-shod  in  old  slipper.'!,  carries  her 
sound  shoes  to  Mr.  Gawler's  and 
places  them  on  the  counter. 

This  sort  of  work  keeps  Uncle 
Gawier  tolerably  busy,  while  his 
young  men  are  busy  restoring  the 
pledged  goods ;  but  he  is  not  nearly 
so  busy  as  he  will  be  presently.  By 
this  time  the  slamming  of  the 
box-doors  has  increased,  and  a 
quick  succession  of  dull  bumps  and 
thumps  announces  the  descent  down 
the 'spout'  of  parcels  of  all  sorts 
and  sizes  from  the  various  ware- 
houses above.  John  has  returned 
with  the  lantern  in  one  hand  and  a 
bunch  of  little  packets  in  the  other ; 
and  three  times  the  gloomy  boy  has 
laboured  up  the  cellar  steps,  laden 
with  ironware  and  tools,  which  he 
has  deposited,  with  a  malicious 
clatter,  upon  the  shop  floor,  and 
once  more  retreated.  The  eleven 
boxes  are  gradually  filling;  and 
from  out  their  gloomy  depths,  where 
the  clatter  and  chatter  is  each 
moment  increasing,  there  crops  a 
thick  cluster  of  ticket-grasping  fists, 
wriggling  to  be  delivered.  But  it  is 
not  time  yet  to  gather  in  this  second 
crop  :  the  result  of  the  first,  which 
chokes  up  the  spout,  has  yet  to  bo 
cleared  off. 

This  part  of  the  performance  is 
conducted  by  the  indefatigable 
David.  Hauling  and  tugging  at 
the  rag-wrapped  bundles  that  Imlge 
out  at  the  mouth  of  the  spout,  he 
rapidly  ranges  them,  ticket  up- 
ward (it  should  have  l)een  stated 
that  a  duplicate  of  the  ticket  held 
by  the  pawner  is  pinned  on  to  the 
profKjrty  pawned,  and  that,  when 
the  searchers  have  found  the  bundle 


to  which  the  ticket  put  into  the  bag 
refers,  ho  i)ins  it  by  the  side  of  the 
ticket  already  distinguishing  it), 
and  then  lugins  to  call  out  the 
name  the  duplicate  bears. 

'  Jones!' 

'  One ;  here  you  are,'  somebody 
calls. 

'  Three  and  sevenpence-half- 
penny,  Jones ;'  and  in  a  twinkling 
the  money  passes  one  way,  and  the 
parcel  the  other,  and  Jones  is  dis- 
missed. 

'Robinson  I  how  many,  Mrs. 
Eobinson?' 

'  Five.' 

Mrs.  Robinson  must  wait:  when 
the  other  four  bundles  happen  to 
turn  up,  she  will  get  her  'live,'  not 
before ;  so,  putting  her  first  dis- 
covered bundle  aside,  David  con- 
tinues his  investigation. 

'  i\rackney !  How  many,  Mack- 
ney?  Mack-ney! — how  many  more 
times  am  I  to  holloa  ?' 

'  Is  it  McKenny  ye  mane  ?'  shouts 
a  shrill  voice. 

'Well,  p'raps  it  is:  what's  the 
article  ?'  inquires  the  cautious  David. 

'  Siveral,'  pipes  Mrs.  McKenny; 
'  there's  the  childers'  perrikits,  *and 
me  olo  man's  weskit,  and  a  shawl, 
and ' 

'  Two  and  a  halfpenny,'  exclaims 
David,  cutting  the  lady  cruelly 
short. 

'  But  I  want  to  part,  Davy  dear,' 
said  the  Irishwoman. 

'  Why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first?' 
sna))ped  ])avi(l,  and  at  the  same 
time  to.ssing  the  monstrously  large 
two-shilling  bundle  towards  Uncle 
Gawier. 

Uncle  Gawier  at  once  seized  it, 
unpinned  it,  and  disclosed  petti- 
coats, and  shawl,  and  waistcoat,  be- 
sides .several  other  articles. 

'  I  want  the  weskit  and  shawl, 
and  leave  the  rist  for  fifteen  pince,' 
said  Mrs.  McKenny. 

'  Niucpence  is  what  you  can  leave 
'em  for,'  replied  Uncle  Gawier,  with 
a  determination  L'....:  ^.Irs.  McKenny 
had  not  the  courage  to  combat; 
'  one  and  four,  plca.se.'  And  having 
paid  this  sum,  she  walked  off  with 
the  shawl  and  waistcoat.  This  at 
at  once  explained  the  meaning  of 
the  mysterious  ])lacanl,  '  No  parting 
after  eleven  o'clock.'    It  was  evident 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petersburg. 


145 


enongh  thai;  the  process  of '  parting ' 
was  uot  fi  little  tiresome,  and  calcu- 
lated to  luiraper  and  impede  busi- 
ness if  allowed  at  the  busiest  time. 

The  iirst  delivery  of  pledges 
over,  the  second  crop  of  tickets  was 
gatliered  ;  and  so  much  heavier  was 
it  than  the  first,  that  by  the  time  he 
had  reached  the  sixth  box,  David's 
hands  were  quite  full.  Big  as  was 
the  leather  bag  suspended  in  the 
'spout,' it  was  chokeful  when  David 
thrust  in  his  gathering  ;  and  before 
five  minutes  had  elapsed,  the  noise 
of  falling  bundles  within  the  spout 
was  fast  and  furious.  Tear  and  haul 
at  them  as  David  might— even  with 
the  assistance,  slow  but  determined, 
of  the  melancholy  cellar-boy — the 
lads  above,  now  well  warmed  to 
their  work,  were  not  to  ba  outdone, 
but  kept  up  the  shower,  pelt, 
bump,  thump,  until  the  throat  as 
well  as  the  mouth  of  the  spout  was 
fairly  choked.  Still,  in  flocked  the 
customers,  until  there  was  no  more 
door-slamming,  for  the  boxes  were 
crammed  and  brimming  over  into 
the  passage ;  and  the  number  of 
ticket-grasping  iists  that  threatened 
over  the  counter  was  enough  to 
appal  any  but  such  tried  veterans 
as  Uncle  Gawler  and  his  crew.  Then 
the  uproar  !  Small- voiced  women, 
of  the  hetter  sort,  begging  and  en- 
treating of  David  to  take  their 
tickets,  at  the  same  time  pouring 
into  his  adder  ears  the  various 
domestic  businesses  on  which  their 
need  for  haste  were  based.  Shrill- 
voiced  women  of  the  worser  sort, 
dirty-faced,  baby-bearing,  gin-hic- 


cuppy  slatterns,  brawling,  pushing, 
driving  their  elbows  into  other 
people's  eyes,  and  trampling  on 
their  feet.  Drunken  men  who  had 
never  given  any  ticket  at  all,  and 
who  yet  obstinately  persisted  in 
blocking  up  the  front  and  most 
desirable  places,  taking  great  oaths, 
banging  their  great  fists  against  the 
counter,  and  challenging  David  into 
the  road  to  fight.  Great  indeed 
must  have  been  the  joy  of  David  and 
John  when  eleven  o'clock  struck, 
and  Uncle  Gawler  shouted  '  no  more 
parting!'  and,  whipping  off  his 
sleeved  waistcoat,  came  to  their 
assistance.  He  was  a  host  in  him- 
self. By  a  few  pertinent  remarks 
as  to  what  would  be  the  probable 
result  of  their  outrageous  beliaviour 
when  they  brought  their  things  back 
to  pledge  on  Monday  morning,  he 
silenced  the  vixens :  and  by  em- 
phatically declaring  that  he  would 
not  deliver  another  parcel  to  his 
customers  until  they  turned  out  the 
noisy  drunken  men,  he  got  rid  of 
them  in  a  twinkling.  He  assailed 
the  glutted  '  spout,'  and  delivered 
bundles  in  batches  of  six  and  eight, 
and  counted  up  the  interest,  and 
took  money,  and  gave  change  with 
a  celerity  that  took  away  one's 
breath  to  behold.  In  half  an  hour 
the  box  doors  began  again  to  slam — a 
sure  sign  that  the  rush  was  thin- 
ning :  in  another  twenty  minutes 
he  liad  so  slackened  the  pressure  as 
to  find  time  to  come  in  to  me,  mop- 
ping the  perspiration  off  his  scarlet 
visage  with  his  silk  handkerchief, 
and  inquire  what  I  thought  of  it  all. 
James  Geeenwood; 


A  WINTER  AT  ST.  PETERSBURG. 


THE  class  is  but  a  small  one  to 
which  the  winter  months  do 
not  bring  their  full  share  of  labour 
at  home,  and  even  of  those  who 
cast  over  the  pages  of  Murray  in 
search  of  winter  quarters,  many  are 
invalids  compelled  to  make  the  pur- 
suit of  health  their  first  considera- 
tion, who  naturally  take  flight  to- 
wards the  sunny  south,  and  settle 
on  the  sheltered  coast  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, or  in  some  of  the  warm 
regions  of  southern  France. 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXII. 


The  number,  then,  is  limited  who 
can  open  a  gazeteer  uninfluenced  by 
any  previous  bias,  and  follow  the 
exact  course  their  fancy  dictates. 
To  this  class  especially,  desirous  of 
seeing  something  totally  new,  and 
not  too  much  trammelled  by  con- 
siderations of  health  and  purse,  we 
would  desire  to  suggest  a  residence 
where,  if  they  delight  in  the  novelty 
of  observing  a  new  people  and  hear- 
ing a  new  language,  they  may  gratify 
their  wishes  and  enjoy  at  the  same 


145 


A  Winter  at  Si.  Felersburg. 


time  an  nnlitnitcd  amount  of  pkat- 
in£»,  fileilRinfr,  (lescoiulin^:  ii'e  moim- 
tains,  and  similar  pastimes  charac- 
teristic of  the  far  north. 

The  country  to  wliich  wo  allude 
in  Russia,  concorninfr  which  distant 
land  prtjudicfc^  aro  rife  in  Kugland, 
and  which  is  only  now,  through 
railway  communicatiou,  Ix-'ginniug 
to  be  opontd  up  to  travellers  from 
the  west. 

St  Petersburg  may  Ik)  reached  in 
three  days  and  a  half  from  London 
Bridge,  or,  with  a  night's  rest  at 
Berlin,  in  five  days.  The  former 
journey  is  far  too  fatiguing  to  be 
undertaken  by  any  but  the  v^ry 
strong,  and  even  tlien  the  xirgency 
of  the  motive  ought  to  bo  consider- 
able. The  journey  of  five  days,  for 
those  who  are  already  acquainted 
with  Belgium  and  Prussia,  or  do 
not  caro  to  linger  there,  is  quite 
practicable.  For  ladies,  liowever, 
we  would  recommend  more  frequent 
stoppages,  and,  above  all,  should  the 
trip  he  a  winter  one,  a  plentiful 
supply  of  furs  for  that  part  of  the 
journey  beyond  Berlin.  Bru.ssels, 
Cologne,  Berlin,  and  Krenigsl)erg 
will  bo  found  cnnveuient  halting- 
places.  Between  the  latter  city  and 
St.  Petersburg  there  is  an  unavoid- 
able run  of  thirty  hours,  unless  the 
traveller  have  the  hardihood  to  seek 
the  shelter  of  the  hotel  at  Diina- 
bourg  without  a  knowledge  of  liuss. 

Ice  and  snow  are  hardly  necessary 
to  invest  the  north-eastern  plains  of 
Germany  with  a  dreariness  which 
seems  inherent  to  their  flat,  sandy 
expanses,  and  which,  as  the  traveller 
advances  t<^»wards  the  frontier,  bor- 
row more  and  more  bleakness  from 
the  vast  marshy  deserts  of  the 
neighl)Ouring  Russian  Empire. 

If  the  transition,  so  far  as  external 
nature  is  concerned,  l>o  a  gradual 
one,  the  c<)ntra'<t  in  all  that  regards 
human  society  and  habitations  i.s 
sudden  and  glaring,  and  every  sight 
and  Bountl  helps  to  remind  the 
traveller  that  he  is  leaving  l)ehind 
him  the  effects  of  a  htwidre«l  years 
of  civilization,  and  turning  over  a 
leaf  of  European  life  separattfl  by 
at  least  that  period  from  the  page 
itBt  peniPcd. 

The  whole  appearance  of  the 
frontier  station  of  Wir bailcn,  or  by 


its  Russian  name,  "Wierzbolow,  is 
calculated  to  depress  the  traveller 
from  the  west.  The  indescri liable 
indigence  of  the  mass  of  the  tra- 
vellers, the  inferiority  of  the  re- 
freshments, the  absence  of  the  com- 
monest comforts  in  tho  waiting- 
rooms,  and  the  pruffoess  of  the 
custora-houso  ofliciuls,  combine  to 
discourage  the  Englishman  who  is 
about  to  cross  the  thre.'^hold  of  all 
the  RnSvSias.  It  is  in  such  situations 
that  tho  blessings  of  st<.am  commu- 
nication come  most  forcibly  l)eft)ro 
the  mind,  and  he  who  wearies  ot 
this  northern  journey  may  imagine 
for  his  consolation  some  ten  weary 
days  and  nights  spent  in  a  sledge  in 
former  days  Ixitween  the  Prussian 
and  Russian  capitals,  at  an  exjjense 
of  about  twenty-five  pounds.  At 
present  the  cost  of  the  railway 
journey,  in  very  comfortable  car- 
riages, does  not  exceed  seven  pounds, 
and  the  time  occupied  is  forty-eight 
hours.  Beyond  Wirballen  each 
carriage  contains  a  stove,  and  the 
occupants  are  far  more  hkely  to 
suffer  from  heat  than  cold. 

The  approach  to  St.  Petersburg 
by  land  has  none  of  the  charm  which 
rewards  the  summer  traveller  after 
six  days'  tossing  on  the  North  Sea 
and  the  Baltic,  when  the  golden 
dome  of  St  Isaac's  Church  rises 
gleaming  out  of  the  horizon,  and 
the  magnificent  river  Neva,  with  its 
noble  quays  and  sparkling  waters, 
first  nieuts  the  eje.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  town  from  the  railway- 
station  tends,  on  the  contrary,  to 
confirm  the  somewhat  dismal  im- 
pression made  by  the  welcome  at 
the  frontier,  and  it  is  only  when 
standing  on  one  of  the  quays,  fa- 
voured by  a  bright  sun  and  clear 
atmosphere,  that  the  really  btautiful 
features  of  the  city  are  discernefl. 
St.  Petersburg  is  grand  in  its  general 
eflTi  cts,  though  tho  impression  fades 
away  when  tho  great  tlioroiighfares 
are  forsaken  for  the  remoter  parts, 
where  a  monotonous  Asiatic  mode 
of  existence  reigns  supremo,  and 
where  tho  vast  '  prospects,'  as  the 
Russians  term  their  largest  streets, 
appear,  owing  to  the  sparse  popu- 
lation, yet  vaster  than  they  really 
are. 

Tho  hotels  of  St.  Petersburg  will 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petenhurg. 


147 


not  fail  to  demonstrate  in  a  very 
unmistakable  manner  the  backward 
civilization  of  Eussia.  They  are 
dear,  ill  provided  with  comforts, 
and  dirty.  The  English  traveller 
will  act  judiciously,  if  he  speaks  no 
liuss,  in  going  to  Miss  Benson's 
hotel  on  the  English  quay,  where 
there  are  very  fairly  good  rooms, 
with  civil  attendance,  and  English 
cookery.  This  is  a  Itoarding-house, 
and  a  somewhat  motley  assemblage 
of  guests  breakfast  and  dine  toge- 
ther. Here,  however,  an  English- 
man's most  ordinary  wants  will  not 
be  regarded  with  such  blank  aston- 
ishment as  in  the  purely  Eussian 
hotels.  For  a  residence  of  any 
length,  furnished  lodgings,  with  a 
German  or  French  servant,  are  the 
most  desirable  quarters. 

The  town  is  situated  on  either 
bank  of  the  Neva,  both  of  which  are 
lined  with  fine  quays  of  Finnish 
granite.  The  river  is  here  about 
six  hundred  yards  wide  and  fifty 
feet  deep.  Its  waters  form  nearly 
the  only  outlet  both  of  Lake  Ladoga, 
itself  one  hundred  and  tifty  miles 
loug,  and  of  the  immense  system  of 
Finnish  lakes  known  as  the  Saima. 
The  stream  is  clear  and  beautiful, 
and  to  it  the  city  owes  much  of  its 
majesty.  The  houses  are  chiefly  of 
stone,  and  in  only  four  cities  of 
Russia  do  stone  edifices  preponder- 
ate. Unfortunately,  however,  most 
of  the  public  buildings  are  adorned 
with  stucco  fronts,  as,  for  instance, 
the  Admiralty,  a  vast  structure 
which  extends  for  a  great  distance 
along  the  left  bank  of  the  Neva. 
The  town  is  upwards  of  four  miles 
in  length,  though  comparatively 
narrow.  Its  population  does  not 
greatly  exceed  half  a  million,  but 
varies  considerably  in  summer  and 
winter,  owing  to  the  influx  of  pea- 
sants seeking  for  employment  during 
the  latter  and  longer  half  of  the 
year.  Among  tlie  Eussian  popula- 
tion there  can  hardly  be  said  to  be 
a  middle  class,  the  shopkeepers 
being  either  very  humble,  or  en- 
titled, owing  to  the  vastness  of  their 
trade,  to  rank  rather  with  the  upper 
than  the  middle  stratum  of  society. 
This  state  of  things  is  fruitful  of 
evils,  and  to  it  may  be  ascribed  the 
fact  that  there  is  among  the  Eussiaus 


proper  scarcely  any  medium  between 
luxury  and  want.  Education  has 
not  yet  been  diffused  throughout 
the  masses,  and  whilst  this  remains 
the  case,  the  progress  of  the  nation 
must  be  slow.  The  influence  of  the 
large  German  population  is  in  this 
respect  a  good  one,  for  wherever  the 
colonists  from  the  Baltic  provinces 
of  Esthonia  and  Livonia  have  settled, 
either  in  town  or  country,  they  have 
both  themselves  succeeded,  and  have 
set  a  good  example  to  the  inhabit- 
ants. An  edict  of  Peter  the  Great 
provided  that  none  but  Germans 
were  to  follow  the  trades  of  bakers 
or  chemists  ;  no  doubt  owing  to  the 
fact  that  these  trades  demand  a 
greater  amount  of  conscientious  care 
and  attention  to  details  than  the 
Eussian  character  could  boast  of  a 
century  ago.  The  law  has  long 
been  repealed,  but  the  fact  remains 
that  both  these  trades,  and  the 
greater  number  of  the  i^rofession  of 
physicians,  as  also  the  bulk  of  the 
men  of  science  resident  in  the 
country,  are  Germans.  It  is  slid 
that  one  of  the  few  occupations  for 
which  the  true  Muscovite  mind 
shows  a  strong  spontaneous  leaning 
is  that  of  driving,  in  which  great 
excellence  may  be  generally  re- 
marked. They  have  likewise  in 
great  vigour  the  constructive  faculty 
so  common  amongst  Orientals,  and 
country  carpenters  will  execute  the 
most  complicated  pieces  of  cabinet 
work  with  wonderful  accuracy  to 
pattern.  Invention,  and  what  the 
French  call  'initiative,'  they  lack, 
and  this  applies  no  less  to  literature 
than  to  matters  of  physical  skill. 

The  character  of  the  great  mass 
of  the  Eussian  people  is  little  known 
in  England,  for  of  course  none  but 
the  upper  classes  are  to  be  met  with 
in  western  Europe.  We  consider 
the  former  to  be  the  superiors  of  the 
latter,  who  are  in  truth  rendered 
soft  and  indolent  by  luxury.  It  has 
been  justly  observed  that  the  extreme 
of  cold  is  far  from  producing  the 
same  bracing  effects  as  the  more 
moderate  mountain  air  which  nerves 
the  Highland  gillie ;  it  rather  causes 
the  mass  of  the  inhabitants  to  resign 
themselves  to  the  severity  of  the 
climate,  and,  instead  of  combating 
the  cold  by  exercise,  to  pass  seven 

L    2 


118 


A  Winler  al  St.  Petersburg. 


or  ci.crlit  mnrtlis  of  tho  yoar  wrapped 
in  inoMiitains  of  fur,  aii'l  in  toUiI 
mns(>ular  inaction.  When  this 
nioilo  of  life  is  aecompniiied,  ns  it 
gencniUy  is,  by  luxurions  livincj, 
late  hours,  constant  sni  ikinp,  and 
the  consumption  of  an  unliniitod 
nunilx-T  of  l>onhons,  itisiiot  dithcult 
to  account  for  tlio  frciiueut  ilhiess, 
and  the  lojk  of  iistlessness  and  joy- 
lessncss  so  characteristic  of  tlie 
country.  The  peivsiintry,  wliich,  of 
course,  fi>rrns  the  great  mass  of  the 
sixty  millions  fi.t,'iirinK  in  fzeo^raphy 
books  as  the  population  of. Curopean 
Russia,  and  which  supjilies  the  nw 
material  for  her  vast  armies,  is  of 
the  resijjined  and  apathetic  disposi- 
tion natm-aliy  engendered  by  three 
unfavoural>le  intluences  working  to- 
gether—a spiritless  religion,  an  al>- 
olutely  despotic  government,  and 
profound  ignorance.  They  are, 
speaking  generally,  of  a  mild  dispo- 
sition, which  is,  however,  modified 
by  an  enormous  consumj)tii>n  of 
'  vodka  '  or  native  branily.  Owing, 
however,  to  liis  placid  character,  the 
Rufsian  'moujik'  is  rarely  violent 
when  intoxicated ;  his  inebriation 
generally  induces  an  excess  of  ten- 
deruefs,  and  he  may  bo  frt^iuently 
observed  staggering  along  with  his 
arm  round  his  latest  acquaintance's 
neck. 

Though  hating  the  conscription, 
and  using  every  means  in  his 
power  to  avoid  being  enlisted,  the 
Russian  soldier  is  justly  noted  for 
his  cool  intrepidity  and  courage  of 
the  moie  passive  sort,  and  for  extra- 
ordinary powers  of  endurance. 

A  suliject  interesting  to  all 
strangers  is  the  expense  of  a  Russian 
residcnro.  This,  though  really  very 
large,  is  often  exaggerated.  The 
great  causes  of  the  dearness  are  — 
first,  that  so  many  articles  of  con- 
sumption must  be  im])ort<;d  from  a 
great  di.-tance  ;  and,  stcondly,  that 
owing  to  the  seventy  of  the  climate, 
and  the  liackwanlncss  of  civilization, 
many  things  which  are  luxuriis  in 
western  Lurope  are  indisi)ntablo 
necessaries  in  .St.  iV'torsburg.  This 
applies,  of  course,  with  great  force 
to  a  short  residence,  l)ecause  many 
things  arc  bought  once  for  all,  and 
last  long.  Foragentlemati  intending 
to  go  mlo  society,  on  oullit  of  furs. 


costing  at  least  30^.,  is  essential,  and 
equally  requisite  is  a  carriage  and 
))air,  either  for  a  married  or  single 
man,  with  a  sledge  tor  the  months 
when  the  snow  covers  tlie  groun  1 ; 
tliat  is,  about  one  third  of  the  year. 
The  lx!st  coat  is  a  very  thickly 
wadded  one,  reaching  well  below  the 
knees,  with  a  beaver  collar  only, 
which  costs  about  15  guineas,  and 
in  which  walking  is  quite  prac- 
ticable. A  beaver  cap,  costing  about 
4/.,  is  a  neces.«ary  addition.  Risidcs 
this,  the  traveller  muht  pi-sess  a 
loose  cloak,  reaching  to  the  ankles, 
lined  with  thick  fur,  and  furnished 
with  a  hood  to  cover  the  wliolo 
head.  This  is  for  sledge  driving  in 
intense  cold,  and  if  fortunate,  ho 
may  obtain  one  of  these  '  schoobs ' 
second-hand  for  about  10/.  If 
any  ice  boating  be  indulged  in,  a 
sheepskin  is  also  rcquiied,  value 
about  2I.  A  sledge  had  better  bo 
bought  for  a  long,  and  hired  for  a 
short  residence.  A  carriage  and 
horses  are  always  better  hired,  and 
may  bo  had  very  fairly  good  for 
about  125  roubles,  or  18/.  per  month. 
Tlie  tirst  necessaries  of  liie,  such  as 
bread  and  meat,  are  cheap;  every- 
thing ai)proaching  to  comfort  or 
luxury  is  dear,  especially  public 
amusement.s,  M'ines,  and  tlrtss  for 
lM)tli  sexes.  On  the  whole,  it  may 
be  said  that  the  .same  amount  of 
comfort  is  attainable  by  a  single 
man  in  London  for  half  the  in  aiey. 
To  a  married  man  thi.s  docs  not 
api»ly,  because  exjienscs  are  not 
doubled,  servants'  wages  ami  tho 
piiinary  hou.sehold  cxpen.ses  being 
moderate,  and  tho  same  carriago 
serving  for  two  as  for  one.  lioUftO- 
rent  is  in  every  case  enormously  ex- 
pensive, about  half  as  dear  again  as 
in  Paris.  Permanent  le-iideiits  can 
hardly  remain  at  .St.  Puter.^burg 
in  summer,  and  this  is  a  new  soiirco 
of  expense.  Wealth  in  Kussa  is  in 
tho  hauls  of  the  few;  aiid  tliosu  wo 
see  S()naii(hring  great  sums  at  Da  len 
and  liomburg  are  either  memlieis 
of  a  few  really  rich  fumilies,  or  aro 
fi[)ending  their  cajHtal.  it  is  a  mis- 
take to  snppo.so  that  riches  aro 
widely  distrilmted,  and  until  free 
trade  is  ostal)lished,  an  1  good  in- 
ternal communication  available,  .'O 
that  tho  resources  of  tho  couutiy 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petersburg, 


149 


may  be  developed,  they  will  not 
become  so.  Property,  as  in  Franco 
and  Germany,  is  very  generally  sub- 
divided among  the  children. 

The  visitor  at  St.  Petersburg,  it 
he  have  a  French  or  German  ser- 
vant, will  not  bo  greatly  inconveni- 
enced by  ignorance  of  the  Russian 
language;  for  although  many  even 
of  the  upper  classes  understand 
nothing  else,  a  knowledge  of  French 
and  German  is  widely  diffused. 
The  former  will  be  found  the  more 
useful  language  in  society,  the  latter 
with  men  of  business,  and  in  shops. 
Some  knowledge  of  Euss  adds,  of 
course,  greatly  to  the  traveller's 
pleasure ;  but  in  a  residence  of  less 
than  six  months  it  is  not  worth 
■while  to  attempt  more  than  to  ac- 
quire a  familiarity  with  some  of  the 
common  substantives  and  verbs,  the 
numerals,  and  the  like.  The  writer 
acquired  considerable  knowledge  of 
the  language  in  nine  months,  but 
this  was  by  daily  study  with  a 
master,  and  the  above  period  formed 
only  a  part  of  a  residence  of  several 
years.  Much  is  said  of  the  extraor- 
dinary difficulty  of  the  Russian 
tongue,  but  we  think  that  there  is 
exaggeration  in  this  respect.  The 
grammar  is  difficult,  and  requires 
some  three  months'  application  to 
acquire  a  tolerable  facility,  bvit  the 
construction  is  very  simple,  and  there 
are  none  of  the  articles,  the  constant 
introductioa  of  which  is  such  a 
crucial  test  of  knowledge  of  gender 
in  German.  On  the  pther  hand  the 
learner  is  not  assisted  by  roots  de- 
rived from  the  Latin  or  any  language 
likely  to  have  been  joreviously  ac- 
quired. Russian  is  a  complicated 
key  which  does  not  as  yet  open  a 
,  literary  Paradise  sufficiently  exten- 
sive or  fascinating  to  reward  a 
thorough  acquisition  of  its  niceties, 
and  the  principal  literary  works 
have  been  translated  by  various 
authors,  among  whom  may  be  men- 
tioned Sir  John  Bowring.  The  poet 
Puschkine  is  a  real  poet,  and  his 
writings  bear  some  resemblance  to 
those  of  Lord  Byron.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  a  diluted  edition 
of  Byron,  subjected  to  a  second 
watering  through  translation,  would 
excite  much  interest  in  England  at 
the  present  day.  If  not  as  yet  fertile 


in  native  literature,  the  Kussians 
show  the  disposition  to  appreciate 
the  productions  of  other  nations, 
as  the  translations  of  really  good 
English  books  are  numerous.  A  few 
Russian  words  and  phrases  will 
show  how  new  are  the  sounds  meet- 
ing the  ear  on  arrival.  The  numerals, 
one,  two,  three,  &c.,  the  bare  know- 
ledge of  which,  preceding  the  word 
rouble  or  kopeck,  is  invaluable,  are 
in  Russian  as  follows :  ahdcen,  dvah, 
tree,  cheteere,  piahtt,  shest,  stm, 
voscm,  deviett,  desett,  adiiiazzat, 
dvenuttzt;  a  hundred  is  sto,  a  thou- 
sand teessiatch.  It  has  been  remarked 
that  the  word  '  so '  is  the  one  most 
frequently  heard  in  Germany,  in 
Russia  it  is  certainly    *  f^eetchahss,' 

*  immediately,'  which  is  the  invaria- 
ble Russian  rejoinder  when  told  to  do 
anything.  The  formula  of  address 
to  the  drivers  of  the  little,  uncom- 
fortable, open  vehicles  termed 
droschkies,  is  something  of  this 
kind.  The  traveller  names  his  des- 
tination. 'Saurok  kalipake,'  'forty 
kopecks,' says  the  driver ; '  Dvahzatt,* 
'  twenty,'  says  the  stranger ;  '  Neel- 
ziah,  bahtiouschka,'  '  impossible, 
little  father,'  is  the  reply.  The  pas- 
senger walks  on,  and  soon  hears  the 
horse's  feet  pattering  behind  him  on 
the  hard  snow,  and    the    offer  of 

*  Noo,  zeevoltyo,'  '  well,  allow  me.' 
After  a  short  experience,  the  writer 
found  the  best  plan  to  be  to  seat 
himself  and  pay  the  just  ftxre  at  the 
end  ;  but  this  requires  some  know- 
ledge of  distances.  Tales  were  at 
one  time  rife  of  people  being  taken 
to  back  streets  and  murdered  by 
these  drivers,  but  the  introduction 
of  gas  and  an  improved  system  of 
police  has  put  an  end  to  this  form  of 
atrocity.  Crimes  of  violence  are, 
however,  still  frequent,  and  a  certain 
number  of  peoj^le  are  said  annually 
to  disappear,  being  misguided 
enough  to  cross  the  Neva  on  foot  at 
remote  places  on  winter  evenings. 
It  is  believed  that  these  poor  people 
are  murdered  and  buried  under  the 
ice.  The  liest  plan  for  any  one  quite 
ignorant  of  Russ,  is  to  conduct  all 
transactions  with  respectable  Ger- 
man or  French  shops,  and  to  avoid 
Russian  servants.  By  hiring  a 
private  conveyance  per  month,  all 
aimoyance  and  disputes  with  the 


150 


A  Winter  at  Si.  Peier$burg. 


driTers  for  the  nse  of  thoir  drosch- 
kies  and  plf<l^'ts  is  avoi<le<l.  Jufit 
ten  times  the  fare  will  he  a.ske>l  with 
perfei't  calninc!=8,  and  an  English- 
man is<ia4lly  perplexed  if  he  attempts 
tobuy  anything  himself  at  the  great 
bazaar,  or '  Gahsteence  Dvor.'  Iiupx>- 
sition  is  the  rule  among  the  lower 
orders.  It  may  \ie  mentioned  as  a 
gipniricant  fact  regarding  the  money 
dealings  of  the  country,  that  few 
shops  in  St  Petersburg,  however 
well  the  customer  may  be  known, 
will  leave  the  smallest  article  at  any 
house  until  paid  for.  If  in  England, 
especially  at  the  universities,  the 
credit  system  is  carrie*!  too  far,  the 
ready  money  one  is  equally  overdone 
at  St.  Petersburg.  The  former  is  at 
all  events  more  flattering  to  the  in- 
habitants. The  English  tradesman 
argues, 'We  are  pretty  sure  of  our 
principal  sooner  or  later,  and  have 
plaoe^i  it  at  good  interest.'  The 
Ru.ssian,  '  If  I  don't  get  these  fifty 
roubles  over  the  counter,  it  is  very 
unlikely  that  I  shall  ever  do  so,  and 
my  goo<ls  shall  not  leave  my  custody 
unpaid  for.' 

"The  amount  of  really  high  play 
at  St.  Petersburg,  among  people 
often  far  from  rich,  is  one  of  the  in- 
dications how  little  the  value  of 
money  is  thought  of.  It  is  spent  as 
reckles-sly  as  in  the  United  States, 
and  unfortunately  the  country 
does  not  posi-ess  the  same  means 
of  restoring  shattered  fortunes  which 
art--  available  in  America. 

A  {fw  remarks  on  ttie  climate  of 
St  Petersburg,  and  tlie  degree  of 
cold  foi"  which  t'ne  traveller  must  be 
prepared,  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
Petersburg,  King  situated  on  the 
Gulf  of  Finland,  and  not,  like  Mos- 
Cf>w,  in  the  inttrior  of  a  great  amti- 
nent,  is  considerably  aflfucted  by  the 
Bea,  and  changes  are  more  frequent 
than  in  that  capital.  The  intense 
frosts  of  winter  are  interrupted  by 
thaws,  the  short  heats  of  summer  by 
occasional,  though  notexces.sive  rain. 
The  average  temjierature  frf)m  the 
middle  of  November  to  the  miiidie 
of  March  is  prol«ibly  aMut  9  degrees 
below  freezing  point  of  I'ahrenhcit. 
In  a  mo-ifrate  frost,  St.  Pt-Ursburj; 
is  deliL'htful,  for  the  sky  is  generally 
intensely  clear  and  bn'ght,  and  it  is 
then  that  the  amuaementi  of  sledg- 


ing and  dascending  ice  mountains, 
presently  to  be  descrilnxl,  can  I* 
enjoyed  to  the  utmost.  Iv]ually 
detestable  is  a  thaw,  of  which  several 
occur  every  winter,  the  principal  pul)- 
lic  square  V>eing  in  parts  frequently 
covered  with  water  a  foot  deep  for 
days  together,  whilst  the  jolting 
droschky  takes  the  i)luce  uf  the  swift 
and  smoothly-gliiimg  sledge.  Wo 
have  descrilied  above  the  dre.ss  we 
consider  most  judicious,  and  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  how  much  the  dif- 
ference in  clothing  does  to  reconcile 
a  stranger  to  the  temperature.  lu- 
d' ors  the  comfort  is  complrte. 
Double  windows  are  univer^^al  for 
six  months  of  the  year,  and  were 
they  used  in  England  for  thrto,  we 
doubt  not  that  colds  and  rheumatism 
would  become  rarer  than  tbey  are. 
Tne  Russian  stove  is  quite  differently 
managed  from  that  employed  in 
Germany,  and  if  sufficiently  large, 
need  only  1)e  heated  once  in  the  day. 
It  is  filled  with  woxl  early  in  the 
morning,  and  several  hours  after- 
wards, when  every  particle  of  the 
wood  lias  been  r«>duced  to  smoulder- 
ing ash,  the  pipe  is  closed  by  an 
arrangement  for  the  purpose,  and 
the  heat  thrown  back  into  the  room. 
This  economical  sjstem,  and  the 
cheapness  of  firewcxnl,  rtn<ier  fuel 
a  much  less  heavy  item  than  mijjht 
l)e  supposetl.  Firewood  is  frequently 
included  in  the  price  of  an  apart- 
ment. Strangers  should  not  attempt 
closing  the  stoves  themselves,  as  the 
least  morsel  of  unconsumed  wood 
may  cause  the  most  dangerous 
fumes  to  fill  the  room. 

Having  endeavoured  to  put  tho 
stranger,  as  ngards  material  com- 
forts, in  a  po.-ition  to  enjoy  hiui.self, 
we  shall  now  de-^crilxj  the  recrea- 
tions at  his  command,  and  the  way 
to  derive  pleasure  from  them. 

Sledging,  icc-hills,  skating,  and 
ice-VKjating,  are  the  chief  out-door 
pastimes. 

Sledging  is  of  course  not,  ns  in 
Germany,  an  occasional  pa.stime, 
but  the  universal  c<mv<yance  of 
hitrh  and  low  for  fourm(»ntlis  rif  the 
year.  It  is  a  s«  rious  misfortune  in 
Russia  when  frost  and  snow  come 
very  late,  for  it  j)revents  tho 
peasants  bringing  to  tlie  cipital  the 
frozen  provibiuus  for  all  the  winter 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petersburg, 


161 


months,  and  induces  universal  stag- 
nation in  inland  trade.  A  Russian 
road,  at  all  times  excessively  bad, 
is  rendered  truly  frightful  when 
autumnal  rains  have  produced  ono 
universal  pulp.  A  good  frost  and  a 
plentiful  layer  of  snow  changes 
everything.  The  rivers  become 
highways,  and  thousands  of  carts 
on  sledges  glide  with  tase  along 
the  paths  lately  almost  deserted. 
Locomotion  becomes  a  great  plea- 
sure, instead  of  a  very  literal  pain, 
and  Russia  and  its  inhabitants  are 
seen  to  the  best  advantage.  Much 
in  this  country,  even  in  the  height 
of  summer,  tends  to  remind  the 
traveller  of  the  long,  deadly  grip 
which  winter  keeps  on  the  land, 
and  which  it  relaxes  so  late  and  so 
unwillingly.  Of  this  nature  are  tlie 
bridges  of  boats  on  the  Neva,  so 
constructed  that  they  can  be  re- 
moved when  the  ice  begins  to  col- 
lect ill  the  river  in  autumn,  and 
when  its  huge  fragments  are  borne 
ialong  with  terrible  violence  in 
spring.  The  windows  of  the  car- 
riages on  the  Moscow  Railway, 
made  as  small  as  is  consistent  with 
a  moderate  amount  of  light,  show 
that  the  passeugers  are  more  con- 
cerned about  warmth  than  scenery. 
To  return  to  our  account  of  sledg- 
ing, we  must  inform  the  reader  that 
Russian  sledges  are  not  in  general 
ornamented,  and  made  in  the  shape 
of  swans  or  dragons,  after  the  fan- 
tastic taste  adopted  during  the  short 
sledging  season  of  Central  Ger- 
many, but  that  they  are  in  general 
simply  boxes  furnished  with  the 
necessary  seats,  and  invariably 
covered  with  a  huge  bearskin,  which 
keeps  the  occupant  warm  and  com- 
fortable. It  is  very  common,  when 
a  party  is  formed  to  drive  round 
the  islands,  or  to  some  other  part 
of  the  environs,  for  three  horses  to 
be  harnessed  abreast.  This  equi- 
page is  termed  in  Russia  a  '  troika,' 
and  the  three  horses  are  likewise 
occasionally  used  with  carriages  on 
the  roads  in  si;mmer.  The  two 
side  horses  are  trained  to  hold  their 
heads  curved  outwards  in  a  curious, 
and  we  think  rather  unnatural  way, 
but  the  general  effect  of  the '  troika,' 
the  horses  decked  with  tinkling 
bells,  and  the  carriage  filled  with  a 


merry  party,  is  very  pretty,  and  the 
gay  dresses  contrast  in  a  cliarming 
manner  with  the  snow. 

One  of  the  most  frequent  desti- 
nations tor  these  parties  is  to  tho 
ice  hills  on  the  '  Kammcnoi  Ostroff,' 
or  Stony  Island,  of  which  pastime 
we  shall  give  some  account.  At 
either  end  of  a  long  strip  of  care- 
fully-watered ice,  divided  by  a 
strong  wall  of  snow  into  two  equal 
halves,  is  a  sort  of  wooden  tower 
some  twenty  feet  high,  wliich  is 
ascended  by  means  of  a  stair,  and 
from  the  summit  of  which  the  de- 
votee of  this  amusement  descends 
a  steep  inclined  plane  of  ice.  The 
descent  is  eifected  on  a  very  small 
and  light  iron  sledge,  about  three 
feet  long,  covered  with  a  soft 
cushion.  This  craft  is  steered  by 
the  use  of  the  tips  of  the  fingers 
alone,  the  hands  being  covered  with 
very  thick  leathern  gloves.  For  a 
day  or  two  the  beginner  is  almost 
invariably  upset  shortly  after  leav- 
ing the  hill  and  entering  upon  the 
flat  ice,  over  which  the  light  vehicle 
of  course  glides  with  delightful 
rapidity  ;  delightful,  at  least,  if  the 
pilot  have  acquired  certainty  in  the 
art  of  keeping  his  sledge's  head 
straight.  The  steering  is  managed 
by  pressing  lightly  on  the  ice  with 
the  fingers  of  the  right  or  left  hand 
according  to  the  direction  wished. 
The  learner  invariably  presses  too 
much,  which  causes  the  sledge's 
head  to  assume  an  irretrievably 
wrong  direction,  and  make  straight 
for  the  bank  of  snow  and  ice  feucing 
in  the  course  on  either  hand.  At 
this  stage,  all  that  can  be  done  is  to 
perish  in  tlie  least  violent  manner 
possible,  and  to  try  and  meet  the 
wall  of  t^now  sideways  instead  of 
being  pitched  head  foremost  into  it. 
A  sufficiently  exaggerated  pressure 
on  one  side  or  other  will  cause  the 
sledge  to  spin  round  like  a  tee-totum, 
and  for  the  first  three  or  four  days 
beginners  return  again  and  again  to 
the  charge,  white  as  millers.  They 
of  course  excite  great  mirth  at  first, 
but  persevering,  generally  graduate 
in  the  art  by  conveying  ladies  safe!y 
down  behmd  them.  The  more 
heroic  and  resolute  of  their  sex  offer 
themselves  first,  and  are  followed,  if 
they  reach  the  other  end  safely,  by 


152 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petashnrg. 


the  difTidpnt  ones;  so  that  ft  m.an 
may  lucasuro  his  proticioncy  hy  tlio 
amouTit  of  contiilencc  displiuul  by 
his  Iivly  friends.  Sonio  liavi)  eoni- 
pared  th(  ir  sensations  on  Wing  first 
hurled  down  this  abyss  to  being 
thrown  out  of  tlio  window;  but  wc 
think  that  tiic  niet.-^.phor,  to  bo 
exact,  should  specify  one  of  a  mode- 
rate l^eight, — say  a  lowish  second- 
floor  window,  because  the  idea  of  a 
possible  prolongation  of  life  de- 
cidedly preponderates  on  beginning 
to  dash  down  this  artificial  preci- 
pice; whereas  the  sensation  on 
leaving  tlie  top  of  a  house  must  bo 
unfavourable  to  such  hojies.  If,  how- 
ever, the  fteling  of  being  nowliero 
in  particular  can  be  experienced 
at  a  cheaper  rate  than  this,  the  first 
descent  of  a  Eussian  ice-hill  realizes 
the  emotion.  When  tolerable  pro- 
ficiency has  been  attained,  it  is  a 
very  agreeable  amusement,  and  ex- 
cellent exercise.  The  degrees  of 
skill  are— descending  sitting, on  the 
breast,  on  the  knees,  and  standing. 
The  latter  cannot  be  accomplished 
alive,  without  bending  considerably 
on  the  hill.  It  is  averred  that  a 
gentleman  descended  on  his  head. 

The  average  period  during  which 
skating  can  i)e  enjoyed  at  St.  Peters- 
burg is  four  months,  or  about  the 
same  time  as  sledging  continues 
practicable.  It  is  a  curious  fact, 
that  very  few  years  ago,  skating 
might  have  been  said  to  \m  un- 
known in  the  Russian  capital,  save 
among  the  members  of  a  small 
English  club  on  the  Neva.  Tlio 
inhabitants  of  St.  Petersburg,  who 
thus  po-s(ss  a  healthy  and  delight- 
ful recreation  ready  to  their  hand, 
have  always  shown,  and  still  show, 
tho  gnatest  ajiatl-y  regarding  it. 
About  four  years  ago.  a  really  good 
and  largo  skating  club  was  organ- 
izes! on  the  Neva,  with  extensive 
and  well-warmed  rooms  on  the  ice 
for  keeping  and  adjusting  skates, 
and  even  an  orchestra  for  a  weekly 
band.  This  admirable  institution 
induced  many  liussinns  as  well  as 
English  to  take  to  the  ice  as  an 
excrci.'jo;  and  young  and  old,  at 
every  stage  of  jtroficit  ncy,  may  now 
Ixi  seen,  any  toleralily  mild  day  from 
Novemb(  r  to  the  ( nd  of  Jlarcli,  en- 
joying   themficlvcs    on     tlio    wide. 


glassy  surface  watered  and  pmoollicd 
by  the  club.  The  number  of  ladies, 
above  all,  who  have  become  con- 
verts, is  very  great,  and  their 
elegant  and  brdliant  skating  dresses 
render  the  tcene,  on  n  sunny  day,  a 
most  attractive  one.  From  the  con- 
stant ])raitice  they  arc  able  to  have, 
the  tyros  of  November  generally 
iH'cnme  fair  proticients  l>y  the  end 
of  the  season,  and  the  learner  is  not 
left,  as  in  England,  to  mourn  for  a 
year  over  the  backwardm  ss  of  his 
left  leg,  to  which  no  opportunity  of 
amendment  is  ojnn  till  another 
January's  frost  momentarily  covers 
the  Serpentine  with  two  inches  of 
ice.  Winter  once  well  begun  in 
Pupsia,  all  taking  thought  as  to  tho 
safety  of  the  ice  may  be  omitted  till 
about  the  time  Parisians  begin  to 
water  their  strtets.  Four  feet  is  a 
common  thicki;esR. 

The  skating  club  above  alluded 
to  gives  one  or  two  most  biilliant 
evening  fetes  in  the  course  of  the 
winter,  Mhen  tickets  arc  .sold  to  all 
introduced  couk  rs.  These  {.'ay  par- 
ties aro  generally  lionoured  by  tho 
presence  of  the  Em|)erorand  various 
members  of  the  Imjierial  Family, 
cs])ecially  their  Imi)erial  Highnesses 
the  Grand  Dukes  Nicholas  and 
Leuchtenberg,  tho  brother  and 
nephew  of  the  Emperor.  The  latter 
es]uc  ally  excels  in  skating,  fencing, 
and  all  athU  tic  exercises.  Ontheoc- 
casionof  these  festivals, the  ground  is 
purroundul  witli  Ixautiful  coloured 
lamps,  and  an  ixcelleiit  band  cheers 
on  tho  fur-clad  (juadrille  dancers. 
About  eleven  o'clock  the  skaters  aro 
all  supplied  with  torches,  and  tho 
distant  and  imaginative  spectator 
may  set  down  tho  liundreds  of 
gleaming  figures,  a«  they  glide 
through  the  darkness  of  tho  night, 
for  a  general  meeting  of  all  tho 
Willies  o'  the  Wisp  in  Europe.  A 
species  of  skating  unattainal)l(!  in 
England,  and  Ik st  enjoyed  in  IIol- 
Inmi,  niay,  now  and  tlan,  Ikj  had  in 
perfection  at  St.  Petersburg.  This 
is  skating  a  long  distance  straight 
forward.  The  writ<  r  skated  with  a 
friend  on  the  4th  Marc!  ,  1863,  from 
St.  Petersburg  to  Cronstadt.  The 
di'  tnnce,  a.s  the  crow  Hies,  is  eighteen 
nules;  but,  owing  to  unfavourable 
wind,  a  circuit  of  seven  miles  was 


A  Winter  at  St.  Petersburg, 


ncecpsary:  tho  twenty-five  miles 
being  accomplished  in  two  hours 
and  a  half.  The  return  journey  took 
place  on  the  following  day,  under 
greater  difficulties;  for  there  was  a 
strong  head  wind,  and  the  run  occu- 
pied three  hours  and  three  quarters. 
With  a  fair  wind  and  a  tine,  smooth 
surface,  free  from  cat's  ice,  Cron- 
stadt  may  well  be  reached  by  an 
average  skater  in  an  hour  and  a 
half,  and  by  a  really  fast  one  in  con- 
siderably less  than  that  time.  Snow, 
of  course,  spoils  the  Gulf  completely, 
and  the  latter  does  not  admit  of 
this  journey  oftener,  on  an  average, 
than  one  j  ear  in  six. 

An  ice-boat  is  one  fixed  on  a  tri- 
angular framework  of  wood,  fur- 
Dished  at  each  coraer  with  sharp 
skates,  and  rigged  with  a  boom  and 
a  sail  like  those  of  a  sloop.  When 
the  wind  is  very  favourable  and  the 
ice  smooth,  a  speed  of  thirty  and 
even  forty  miles  an  hour  may  easily 
be  attained.  This  is,  however,  a 
decidedly  dangerous  amusement, 
owing  to  the  shocks  to  which  the 
vet-sel  is  liable  from  cracks  and  from 
impediments  on  the  ice.  The  cold 
is  of  course  severely  felt  on  the  open 
gulf  when  no  exercise  is  taken,  and 
very  warm  clothing  is  imperative. 

Such  are  the  out  door  amusements 
■which  are  in  a  great  degree  novel 
and  generally  interesting  to  the 
English  gentleman  of  average  health 
and  strength  who  visits  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  without  them  we  are  at  a 
loss  to  conceive  how  the  long  winter 
•would  be  cheered  and  the  constitu- 
tion braced  to  endure  the  cold. 
Walking,  except  on  the  quays,  and 
in  the  great  stueet  called  the  Nefski 
Prospect,  is  highly  monotonous. 
Eidiiig,  with  the  thermometer  below 
zero  of  Fahrenheit,  which  it  often  is 
for  many  days  together,  tries  the 
spirits  sadly.  Shooting,  which,  ex- 
cept in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
capital,  is  free  to  all,  requires,  owing 
to  the  immense  distances,  a  great 
deal  of  expense  and  much  leisure, 
and  the  game,  though  -varied  and 
interesting,  is  too  thinly  distributed 
to  be  worth  pursuit  within  a  reason- 
able distance  of  tlie  town.  Those 
who  have  a  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage, and  who  take  good  dogs,  may 
find  excellent  sport  in  the  regions 


lying  far  to  tho  north-cast  of  St, 
Petersburg.  Finland  offers  a  fine 
field  in  the  country  beyond  Tam- 
merfors,  which  the  writer  has  visited, 
and  in  summer  the  fishing  for  trout 
and  very  large  salmon-trout  is  in 
parts  really  excellent.  The  beau- 
tiful rapid  of  Imatra,  on  the  river 
Wuoksen,  is  well  worth  a  visit  either 
from  the  angler  or  the  lover  of  the 
picturesque.  It  may  be  reached  in 
about  sixteen  hours  from  St,  Peters- 
burg. 

When  night  closes  in,  and  the 
last  sledge  from  the  ice-hills  has 
ceased  to  tinkle,re?ources  are  opened 
up  in  abundance  to  the  visitor,  who 
must  of  course  endeavour  to  pro- 
cure as  many  good  letters  of  intro- 
duction as  "he  can,  before  leaving 
England.  He  should  by  all  means 
be  presented  at  court  if  possible, 
for  which  purpose  previous  presen- 
tation in  England  is  necessary. 
Without  this  the  traveller  will  be 
unable  to  carry  away  with  him  the 
recollection  of  the  most  beautifully 
organised  and  splendid  entertain- 
ments in  the  world.  Several  balls 
are  given  at  the  Winter  Palace  each 
season,  of  which  at  least  one,  and 
generally  two,  are  on  an  enormous 
scale.  Others  are  very  small  and 
exclusive,  and  happy  is  the  man 
wdio  is  fond  of  really  enjoyable 
dancing,  and  is  invited  to  themT 
But  for  absolutely  dazzling  magni- 
ficence the  first  great  ball  of  the 
season  cannot  be  surpassed.  The 
vast  ball-room  called  the  White 
Hall  is  illuminated  by  thirty  thou- 
sand candles  arranged  in  exquisite 
festoons,  and  the  dresses  and  jewels 
are  truly  lovely.  The  men  are, 
without  exception,  in  some  kind  of 
uniform,  from  the  gorgeous  attire 
of  Prince  Gortchakoff  and  the  am- 
bassadors to  the  smallest  Eussian 
official  who  has  contrived  to  be  in- 
vited. Bound  this  hall  are  long, 
brilliant  galleries  and  a  vast  suite 
of  apartments,  through  which  the 
guests  can  circulate  at  pleasure. 
One  of  the  most  charming  retreats 
is  from  the  hot  ball-room  to  the 
green  and  tranquil  conservatory, 
where  beautiful  flowers  and  plants, 
marble  statues  and  trickling  foun- 
tains, refresh  the  eye  and  ear  by  the 
most  delightful  of  contrasts.    The 


154 


4   Winter  at  Si.  Petersburg. 


snpper-room  roscniMcs  ratlicr  the 
scenes  an  iuiapriiiative  child  conjures 
up  when  deeply  imuiersod  in  the 
Oriental  plorics  of  tho  '  Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainments'  than  any- 
thing to  ho  seen  at  tlio  Tiiileries  or 
tho  Court  of  St.  James's.  Tho 
saloon  is  furnished  with  thrco  long 
tables,  accommodating  alx)>it  tliir- 
teen  hundred  people,  which  are 
covered  with  gold  and  silver  plate, 
interspersed  with  plants,  an^l  adorned 
with  every  variety  of  fruit.  TI)o 
servants  are  dressed  in  a  gay  and 
extraordinary  Oriental  costume,  pe- 
culiar to  these  occasions,  and  a  tino 
band  at  one  end  of  the  room  btrikcs 
up  some  well-chosen  melody  as  tho 
notes  of  the  orchestra  at  the  farther 
end  die  away.  Wo  can  realize  how 
Aladdin  had  every  sen.so  gratified 
at  the  same  moment,  and  how  tho 
eastern  voluptuary  takes  no  thought 
for  the  morrow  but  to  picture  to 
him.self  in  his  m:'re  languid  mo- 
ments an  Kl  Dorado  of  the  futuro 
borrowing  all  its  deliglits  from  tho 
fleeting  Paradise  of  the  present. 

The  i)rivate  balls  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, which  take  place  chiefly  be- 
tween New- Year's  Day  and  Easter, 
are  numerous  and  brilliant,  and  tho 
visitor  will  tind  hospitality  an  excel- 
lent Russian  quality.  The  mazurka, 
universal  at  balLs,  gives  them  an 
animation  and  a  Injauty  to  Ik)  found 
iDwhere  el.se.  This  dance,  originally 
Polish,  has  l)C'en  long  naturalizai  in 
Russifl,  and,  like  tho  Cotillon  in 
Germany,  generally  finishes  tlie  ball. 
It  lasts  al)out  an  hour  and  a  half, 
all  the  ordinary  round  dances  lx;ing 
intro'luced.  A  gtXKl  partner  for  the 
maz\irka  is  a  matter  of  prime  im- 
portance. Well  danced  by  tho  na- 
tives, nothing  cjin  bo  more  gractful, 
but  tho  step  does  not  generally  suit 
our  countrymen,  unless  they  begin 
very  early.  Few  Englishmen  suc- 
ceed in  managing  their  limbs  with 
the  easy,  Slavonic  swing  required, 
and  a  picturesipio  Cauf-asiau,  or 
other  somewhat  wild  nnif'irm,  atlds 
rau(di  to  the  effect  whicti  in  lost  in 
a  dres^  coat.  A  man  may  more 
easily  learn  to  ppcak  a  fi)rei:.,'n  laii- 
gnago  with  wonderful  accuracy  and 
perfect  accent  than  todanro  foreign 
national  dances  with  ea.so  and  grac^. 
An  Euglibhuian  cnliated  as  a  fourth 


in  a  Scotch  reel  seldom  looks  'to 
the  manner  born,'  and  it  is  fortunate 
that  all  Euroi>ean8  can  meet  on  tho 
neutral  territory  of  waltzes  and 
quadrilles. 

The  theatres  arc  well  attended  in 
St.  Petersburg.  The  Italian  Opera 
is  excellent,  and  there  is  likewise  a 
Ilussian  Opera  at  the  Jlario  Theatre, 
one  of  the  largest  in  tlic  world.  Tho 
French  and  German  stages  are  both 
represented,  and  there  are  two  Rus- 
sian performances  every  eveninri 
Whilst  engaged  in  acipiiring  tho 
language  tho  writer  attinded  tho 
latter,  but  found  that  the  ftlays, 
dealing  cliiefly  with  thu  lower  walks 
of  Russian  lite,  were  ratlier  written 
down  to  the  level  of  the  audience 
than  calculated  to  elevate  their  taste. 
Classical  j)ieces  arc,  liowevor,  Fomo- 
tim-js  performed,  and  '  Hamlet,'  in- 
terpreted by  M.  Samoiloff,  is  a 
favourite.  The  Russian  staga  is 
neglected  by  tho  influential  class, 
who  crowd  either  to  the  Italian 
0|)era  or  to  the  French  pieces  at 
tho  Theatre  Michel,  which  restiuble 
those  of  tho  Vaudeville  at  Paris, 
The  Russians  possess,  like  tho 
French,  abundant  dramatic  talent, 
and  have  already  produced  clever 
plays,  such  as  the  '  Reviser,'  and 
'  Gore  ot  Oumah.' 

During  Lent,  concerts  innumer- 
able are  the  order  of  the  day.  They 
are  as  a  rule  indifferent  and  dear, 
'i'he  taste  for  the  best  (Jerman  music 
has  not  yet  l)econie  general  among 
the  Russian  public;  and  two  ])er- 
formances  of  the  '  Messiah,'  which 
took  i)lacc  as  an  experiment  tho 
winter  l)efore  last  in  the  Sal'e  de 
Noblesse,  were  attended  chielly  by 
Germans.  Verdi  is  as  yet  in  greater 
honour  than  IIand(  1. 

No  stranger  should  omit  to  see 
some  of  the  great  ecclesia.'-tical  cere- 
monies, tho  most  imposing  of  which 
of  course  take  i)laco  at  tho  great 
epoclis  of  the  Church's  year.  The 
services  of  the  (Jretk  Cliureh  are 
solemn,  and  tho  fine  nun's  voices 
are  well  worth  hearing;  but  to  our 
mind  tho  ab^ence  of  an  organ  and 
the  great  length  of  the  devotional 
exercises  render  them  tedious.  Tho 
old  Slavonic  tongue,  from  which 
Russian  is  derived,  and  not  Russian 
itbelf,   is   the  languajio    employed. 


Kniwii  l.y  \V.  Siiiiill  | 

PLAYING    FOR    HIQH    STAKES 


[Si;i'  111''  Stdiv 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


155 


The  arcliitectnre,  which  may  be  seen 
in  perfection  in  the  Isaac's  Cathe- 
dral, is  massive  and  very  richly  de- 
corated, and  the  exterior  of  the 
latter,  overlaid  with  fine  ducat  gold, 
is  the  great  ornament  of  the  city 
from  a  distance.  The  peasant  has 
universally  the  profoundest  reve- 
rence for  the  Clnirch  and  her  cere- 
monies, keeping  her  fasts  and  obey- 
ing her  decrees  with  unquestioning 
fidelity.  Among  the  upper  classes 
we  think  the  form  of  belief  frequently 
takes  the  place  of  the  substance. 
Both  for  details  concerning  the  Greek 
Church,  and  the  numerous  sects 
which  have  separated  themselves 
from  her,  and  for  enlightened  criti- 
cism on  the  position  of  Russia  in 
general,  we  desire  to  refer  the  curious 
reader  to  the  able  and  impartial 
pamphlets  of  the    author  writing 


under  the  name  of  Schedo  Ferrotti. 
Hitherto,  prejudice  has  been  a  very 
general  characteristic  of  writers  on 
Russia,  a  country  which  may  yet 
have  a  very  great  future,  and  which 
is  now  engaged  in  the  useful  work 
of  gradually  bringing  Central  Asia 
within  the  pale  of  civilization. 

We  must  now  take  leave  of  St. 
Petersburg,  and  recommend  the 
reader  to  visit  it  at  the  season  we 
have  described.  Spring,  autumn, 
and  summer  are  all  less  favourable 
than  the  bright,  keen  month  of 
January. 

A  visit  to  Moscow,  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  which  interesting  city  we 
have  no  space  in  this  paper,  should  ■ 
not  be  omitted.  Many  a  beautiful 
sight  awaits  the  traveller  in  the  an- 
cient capital  of  the  Czars. 

A.  D.  A. 


PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


'"pvENBIGH  Street,  Belgravia/ 
\J  was  the  address  which  Mrs. 
Lyon  gave  to  all  such  correspond- 
ents as  she  desired  to  hear  from. 
Her  letters  would  have  reached  her 
a  post  or  two  sooner  had  she  sur- 
rendered the  truth,  and  permitted 
'  Pimlico '  to  appear  upon  the  enve- 
lopes. But  '  Belgravia '  looked 
better,  and  Mrs.  Lyon  saw  great 
cause  for  studying  the  look  of  things 
still. 

*  Denbigh  Street,  Belgravia,  is  my 
temporary  abode,  while  my  daughter 
is  staying  in  the  country,'  she  had 
been  saying  in  reply  to  all  inquiries 
as  to  either  her  house  or  her  child 
during  the  last  six  months.  But 
now  Blanche  was  coming  back  to 
her,  a  change  was  about  to  be  made ; 
and  Mrs.  Lyon  was  glancing  for- 
ward hopefully  to  a  time  when 
lodgings,  and  difficulties  about  din- 
ners— an  overwhelming  sense  of 
utter  inability  to  keep  '  litter '  in 
the  background  —  and  'herself 
should  be  on  less  familiar  terms. 

Miss  Lyon  was  expected  home  to 
dinner.    She  was  to  arrive  in  town 


a  few  days  after  Miss  Talbot,  and  to 
be  told  on  her  arrival  of  the  plans 
that  had  been  formed  for  Miss  Tal- 
bot's welfare.  Mrs.  Lyon  was  to  be 
the  communicant;  and  Mrs.  Lyon, 
at  the  moment  of  her  introduction 
into  these  pages,  was  looking  for- 
ward tremblingly  to  her  task. 

She  was  a  middle-aged,  neutral- 
tinted  woman,  who  had  always  found 
herself  less  well  placed  in  the  world 
than  she  had  confidently  expected 
to  be,  and  who  yet,  withal,  had  never 
expected  much.  She  had  gone 
through  life  obeying  mild  impulses 
that  invariably  tended  to  convey  her 
further  from  fortune,  and  all  the 
delights  appertaining  thereunto, 
than  she  had  been  lie  fore.  Yet  all 
her  reverses,  all  her  never-ending 
declinings  upon  some  position  still 
lower  than  the  one  she  had  before 
occupied,  had  been  powerless  to 
wrinkle  her  brow,  or  deepen  the 
lines  round  the  softly-moulded  lips 
that  had  never  been  known  to  utter 
a  severe  or  a  sensible  sentence. 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  frown 
that  her  brows  had  ever  known  was 


15G 


Playing  for  Iligh  Slahes. 


xipon  Ihcm  nnw,  ns  she  Fat  between 
tlic  table  (111(1  the  fireplace,  awaitiiifr 
her  (laiigiifer's  advent,  yiio  was 
sorely  ]Krplixe<l  and  annojed  alx)ut 
two  or  tlirce  thing's.  Tlic  chief  one 
wasa  messap-  tliiit  had  Uan  brought 
up  wordily  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
elfect  thiit,  if  Mrs.  Lyon  did  not 
have  lier  chicken  up  now  that  it 
was  ready,  it  would  bo  burnt  to  a 
cinder. 

'  It  may  bo  brought  up  f ho  in.stant 
Miss  Lyon  arrives— not  iKifore,'  she 
had  answered,  ahno.'<t  depreoatinfjly ; 
and  then  slie  had  pone  on  to  explain 
to  the  servant,  whose  usual  manner 
was  one  of  insolence,  tastefully  en- 
livened by  familiarity,  that,  '  Now 
Miss  Lyon  was  coming,  things  must 
be  different:  they  really  must,  for 
Miss  Lynn  was  most  particular.' 

Presently  Miss  Lyon  came.  She 
was  hiard  giving  directions  about 
her  luggage  in  the  hall;  then  she 
,camo  ruiiuing  ujj^tairs,  and  her  mo- 
ther advanced  halfway  to  the  door 
to  meet  lur,  and  then  fell  back  to 
alter  the  situation  of  a  salt  cellar, 
and  then  filtered  forward  again,  and 
finally  involved  herself  with  the  door 
handle  just  as  Blanche  was  coming 
into  the  room:  involved  herself  in 
euch  a  way,  that  some  lace  on  her 
sleeve  caught  in  the  key,  and  brought 
it  to  the  floor  with  a  clatter  that 
bewildered  lier,  and  prevented  her 
seeing  Blanche's  outstretched  hand, 
and  face  bent  down  to  kiss  her. 

\Vliilo  Mrs.  Lyon  was  extricating 
herself,  and  explaining  how  it  cnmo 
to  i)a.s8  that  tlio  key  should  have 
fallen  at  this  juncture,  and  calling 
t<)  *  ha.sten  dinner'  in  a  tone  that 
was  unintentionally  petulant  by 
reason  of  lier  anxiety  to  make  her 
datiglifer  comfortable  at  once, 
Blanche  swei)t  on  into  the  full  light 
of  the  lamp,  and  stood  bv  the  fire, 
looking  back  half  impatiently,  half 
laughingly,  upon  the  confusion  her 
entrance  had  caused. 

The  light  <>{  the  lamp  had  never 
fallen  on  a  brighter  iHnuty  than  this 
one.  She  had  a  fice  that  was  Hash- 
ing, thoughtful,  cloudy,  smiling,  in 
such  rapid  Buccx^ssion  that  it  ap- 
peared to  Ik)  at  cmce.  No  expres- 
eion  had  a  long  life  in  her  eyes,  no 
Bmilo,  and  no  reason  for  it,  more 
than  a  temporary  alxjdu  on  her  lip 


and  in  her  heart.  There  was  about 
her  that  magic  of  luminous  darkness 
which  characterized  Edgar  Allen 
Poe's  genius.  The  slieen  on  each 
wave  of  her  lustrous  ruddy-tipped 
dark  hair;  the  quickly  'dilating 
pn))il  of  her  great  black-lashed  grey 
eyes ;  the  lino  that  came  from  ner- 
vous agitation  or  anxious  thought 
across  her  rather  low,  .'•(inaie,  clever 
brow;  the  quick,  clear  tones  that 
never  lost  their  cultivation;  the 
lithe  movement  that  was  never 
lounging;  the  rapid  gesture  that 
was  always  refined— all  spoke  of 
suppressed  fire— all  made  one  mar- 
vel at  her  being  the  daughter  of  her 
mother. 

Rounded,  but  fine-drawn  in  figure, 
lacking  in  those  large  proportions 
which  made  Beatrix  Talbot  such  a 
glorious  type  of  woman,  but  with  a 
grace  that  was  all  her  own,  and  that 
was  inferior  to  none;  a  grace  that 
clothed  each  action,  making  it  seem 
the  fitting  thing  to  do;  a  grace  that 
came  from  perfect  proportion,  and 
from  an  artistic  appreciation  of  all 
the  power  perfect  proportion  gives. 
A  woman — in  a  word — ))ossessed  of 
that  most  '  gorgeous  cloak  for  all 
deficiencies' — an  inimitable  manner. 

IIow  splendidly  she  sUiod  the  test 
of  the  strong  light  after  the  long 
day's  travel!  Standing  there,  her 
hands  in  her  muff  still;  her  hat  on 
her  h(ad;  one  well-bred,  highin- 
btep])ed  little  foot  lifted  up  to  the 
top  bar,  to  the  detriment  of  the 
shapely  boot  that  coveretl  it;  her 
long  drapery  falling  away  in  grace- 
ful folds;  and  her  little  delieately 
pointed  no.se  and  chin  held  alott  in 
laughing  contempt  for  the  chaos  sho 
had  created — Bhiiiclio  Lyon  looked 
well  worth  any  mans  love,  and  any 
woman's  envy. 

It  bad  been  her  portion  to  liavo 
much  of  both.  I\Ien  hail  wnocd  her 
warmly,  and  still  somethii  g  had 
always  come  l)etween  the  wooing 
and  the  actual  satisfactory  wiiming 
towards  which  all  wooing  should 
tend.  She  had  been  very  often  loved, 
and  very  ofttn  left.  Whether  the 
fault  was  tho  lover's,  or  hers,  or 
Fate's,  it  was  hard  to  tell.  The 
fault  was,  and  was  a  bitter  one — 
bitter  to  her  niotlu  r,  and  to  such  of 
her  relations  aa  felt  the  bright  beauty 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


157 


to  bo  a  responsibility  so  long  as  sho 
remained  iinniarried,  but  not  bitter 
to  Blanolio  herself.  There  had  al- 
ways been  something  wanting  on 
the  part  of  herself  or  the  other  to 
make  the  viriion  tit.  Unless  that 
something  could  have  been  sup- 
plied, the  chasm  the  want  of  it 
made  was  nceepted  by  Blanche  as 
an  inevitable,  and  not  very  nmch  to 
be  r^ gietted,  thing.  She  often  told 
herself  that  a  thorough  heart-searing 
would  bo  welcome,  as  a  distraction 
to  the  many  minor  ills  by  which  she 
had  been  surrounded  ever  since  she 
had  grown  up  into  the  capability  of 
seeing  the  folly  of  things,  and  feel- 
ing strongly  about  them. 

It  seemed  many  a  long  year  ago 
since  this  capability  first  became 
hers,  for  Blanche  Lyon's  perceptive 
faculties  developed  early,  and  sho 
was  three-and-twenty  when  her  in- 
terest in  the  set  of  events  which  go 
to  the  making  of  this  story  com- 
menced. The  rough  side  of  hfe  had 
been  the  one  on  which  her  baby 
eyes  opened,  and  it  had  never  been 
smoothed  for  her  up  to  the  present 
date.  Once  upon  a  time  her  father 
had  been  a  gentleman  of  consider- 
able property  in  the  West  of  Eng- 
land, but  that  time  had  been  long 
past  when  Blanche  came  into  the 
world  most  inopportunely,  adding 
to  expenses  that  Mr.  Lyon  found  al- 
ready far  exctedsd  his  receipts,  and 
making  the  delicate,  vacillating, 
neutral-tinted  woman  he  had  mar- 
ried more  delicate,  vacillating,  and 
generally  unendurable  than  she  had 
been  belore. 

It  was  a  sorry  home  for  anything 
so  briglit  as  she  was,  that  in  which 
little  IBlanche  Lyon  grew  up.  Her 
father  took  to  the  evil  courses  to 
which  men  of  strong  piissious,  waver- 
ing minds,  small  means,  and  few 
interests,  are  apt  to  take.  He  drank 
and  gamt)led,  and  was  miscella- 
neously gay  in  a  way  tijat  soon  de- 
graded hiiu  oiit  of  the  ranks  of  the 
order  to  which  he  belonged  by  right 
of  birth.  Then  his  wife  reproached 
him,  and  lamented,  and  so  goaded 
him  along  tiie  lower  road  faster 
than  ho  would  otherwise  have  tra- 
velled, and  the  atmosphere  of  their 
home  was  one  of  black,  bitter  dis- 
content and  gloom,  that  was  never 


brightened  by  one  ray  of  approving 
conseience. 

Yet  in  this  iingenial  atmosphere,  in 
this  sad  grace-abandoned  Inmie,  tho 
girl  grew  and  thrived,  mentally  and 
physically.  Gradually  she  came  to 
take  a  sort  of  command  of  the  house- 
hold, to  regulate  and  refine  it  a 
little,  and  to  force  the  seml:)lanco  of 
peace,  at  least,  to  hang  around  it. 
Long  years  of  gross  neglect  on  tho 
one  side,  and  of  feeble  reproaches 
and  furious  jealousies  on  the  other, 
had  weakened  the  always  slender 
tie  that  existed  between  the  husband 
and  wife  to  the  point  of  dissolution. 
Tho  marriage  had  not  been  one  of 
love,  nor  had  respect,  or  convenience, 
or  sympathy  brought  it  about.  They 
had  married  because  Mr.  Lyon,  then 
a  young  debonair  man,  had  taken 
too  mucli  champagne  at  a  hunt  ball 
one  night,  and  under  the  influence 
of  the  same,  had  seen  some  charm 
which  did  not  exist  iti  the  daughter 
of  one  of  the  professional  men  of  the 
town  where  the  festivities  were 
going  on.  Eather  for  the  sake  of 
avoiding  the  necessity  for  making  an 
unsteady  progress  across  the  room 
in  search  of  another  partner,  than 
from  any  feeling  of  preference  for 
Miss  Pulleyne,  Arthur  Lyon  danced 
with  her  many  times  in  succession, 
and  kept  by  her  side  in  the  inter- 
vals. What  he  said,  or  why  he  said 
it,  he  never  had  the  remotest  idea ; 
but  that  he  did  say  something,  and 
that  Miss  PuUc^ne  was  satisfied 
with  his  reasons  for  the  speech,  may 
be  gathered  from  the  fact  of  Mr. 
Pulleyne  caUing  on  him  in  tho 
morning  before  the  nfiusea  conse- 
quent on  the  previous  night's  dissi- 
pation had  passed  off,  and  mildly, 
but  firmly,  making  it  manifest  to 
him  that  he  must  consider  himself 
engaged  to  marry  Miss  Pullejne,  or 
be  considered  a  defaulter  from  the 
code  of  honour  by  all  Miss  Pulleyne 's 
friends  and  relations. 

The  alternative  was  not  a  very 
painful  one  to  the  young  man,  who 
had  a  strong  element  of  defiance  in 
his  nature.  He  would  have  braved 
the  outraged  feehngs  of  the  whole 
Pulleyne  family,  root  and  branch, 
without  hesitation,  had  he  had  any 
stronger  motive  for  doing  so  than 
mere  indifference  to  the  daughter  of 


ins 


Playing  for  High  SUilces. 


the  honpc.  But  indifferonro  was 
uot  a  siitliciiiitly  nctivt'  fooling  to 
ninko  him  do  nn.vthiii};  dotinitc  tlmt 
iniglit  ho  advorso  to  the  interosts  of 
the  one  towards  wlioiu  he  folt  it. 
It  Bcciued  to  liiiu  that  thorc  would 
Ix;  loss  cause  fur  oxortion,  loss  cidl 
for  oxjilanation,  if  he  married  the 
girl  than  if  ho  nfiised  to  do  so.  No 
othor  woman  had  any  ]ilace  in  his 
heart,  so  Arthur  Lyon  allowed  him- 
self to  drift  into  matrimony  without 
even  tlie  semi )lai ice  of  love  for  his 
wife,  or  the  send)Iance  of  curiosity 
at;  to  whether  she  loved  him  or  not. 
For  a  few  years  the  house  was 
kept  uj)  in  a  free,  open,  roughly- 
hospilalile,  uncomfortable  way— a 
way  that  involved  the  expenditure 
of  a  groat  deal  of  money,  and  that 
kept  the  whole  estahlisliment  in  a 
chronic  state  of  confusion.  Mrs. 
Ijvon  went  wafting  along  with  the 
tiile  of  folly,  often  enjoying  it,  often 
l)ewailing  it,  oftener  still  weakly 
fiutlVriiig  herself  to  be  submerged 
by  it ;  but  never  once  attempting  to 
turn  it.  When  tilings  were  at  their 
worst  she  would  weep  at  her  hus- 
band, and  though  hcrtears  were  but 
a  drop  in  the  ocean  that  eventually 
cngidfed  him,  there  was  some  truth 
in  the  man's  declaration  that  he 
might  have  breasted  it  but  for 
those  readily  flowing  reproaches. 

Rleaiitirae,  while  things  were  tend- 
ing towards  the  worst— which  was 
the  selling  of  his  property  and  the 
reduction  of  the  family  to  live  on 
the  liberality  of  an  old  uncle  of 
Arthur  Lyon's— a  little  girl  had 
been  born— the  Blanche  of  these 
])ages.  She  grew  into  a  comprehen- 
sion of  the  state  of  things  surround- 
ing her  very  rapidly;  it  seemed  to 
Arthur  Lyon  that  it  was  but  the 
'  other  day '  he  had  tossed  her  in 
long  clothes  when  shi;  advanced 
her  own  opinion  on  a  uieasuro  he 
propos<;d  taking,  and  stood  out 
against  his. 

This  mea-sure  was  nothing  less 
tlian  the  total  se]iaration  of  the  girl 
from  her  family.  Tiio  old  inicle 
had  fallen  sick  — sick  of  life  that  had 
lasted  till  none  love<i  him— sick  of 
V)eing  served  by  th(jso  who  gave 
Kuch  services  as  they  were  jiaid  for, 
but  never  a  tender  tone  or  look.  Ho 
wa«  u  stlfibh  old  man— it  ran  in  the 


Lyon  blood  to  bo  selfish— and  he 
Wits  true  to  his  nu'o  in  that  resjiect 
to  the  last.  lie  ha<l  liked  women 
about  him  all  his  life.  He  liked 
them  for  their  pretty  ways  and  their 
self-sacriticial  power.  JJut  now  he 
was  old,  and  women  stood  afar  from 
him,  so  ho  wailed  out  a  jjlaint  to  the 
nephew  he  fiui)j)orted  to  the  elTect 
that  he  was  deserted  an<l  left  to  die 
alone,  and  his  nephew,  who  shrank 
himself  from  the  society  of  the  old 
sensualist,  said  that '  IJlanche  should 
come  and  cheer  him  up  if  she  would.' 

It  was  merely  sagacious  on  the 
father's  part  to  add  this  clause,  for 
Blanche  had  a  will  of  her  own. 

'If  he  Were  ill  I'd  go  and  tend 
him,'  she  said,  with  her  bright  face 
in  a  tlame  when  the  plau  was  pro- 
l)o.sed  to  her ;  '  but  he's  not  ill, 
papa;  lie  cats  and  drinks  more  than 
is  good  for  him,  and  I  never  can 
love  him,  or  put  up  with  him.' 

'You  may  lose  a  fortune  through 
not  doing  so,'  her  fatiier  answered, 
moodily;  'you're  not  the  only  one  of 
the  family,  remember,  Blanche.' 

She  thought  he  was  referring  to 
her  mother  and  himself,  and  she  was 
melted  in  a  moment. 

'  Oh,  ])apa!  and  I  would  do  any- 
thing to  serve  you  ;  but  let  it  be 
with  you ;  don't  send  me  away  to 
grow  a  sneak.' 

'  I  meant,  remember,  that  he  C4in 
Ciisily  find  some  other  relative  who 
will  be  more  acquiescent,' her  father 
rei)Iied  ;  '  as  to  serving  me,  and  not 
leaving  me,  I  wish  to  heaven  you'd 
do  either,  or  Ixjth,  poor  child!  1 
shall  do  you  no  good;  but  if  yon 
won't  go,  and  my  uncle  takes  a  fancy 
to  Bathurst's  lK)y,  it's  all  up  with 
your  fate  ever  being  brighter,  that's 
all,  my  girl.' 

She  was  only  a  girl  of  sixteen 
when  this  conversation  took  i)lac(!, 
but  a  woman's  winning  ways  were 
familiar  to  her  even  then.  She  hung 
over  his  shoulder,  resting  her  chin 
upon  it,  and  looked  up  into  his  f;u5e. 

'  \Vlio  knows,  jtapa?  Bathursfs 
boy  may  take  a  fancy  to  me  !' 

'  Il('  might  do  s<jmetliing  moro 
extraordinary,  certainly.  So  you  de- 
cide, then  ?  You  will  stay  with  inc, 
and  rough  it.' 

She  n(Mlde<l  her  lund. 

'  YtH,  don't  mind  my  roughing  it 


Playing  for  High  StaJcen* 


169 


ever,  papa.  I  havo  a  little  of  tho 
gipsy  in  ine,  I  believe ;  there's  a 
cross  of  a  vji^'abond  in  me  someway, 
I  am  sure ;  it  must  be  on  your  side, 
for  mamma  has  nothing  of  the  vaga- 
bond in  lier.' 

'  Your  mother  is  a  slave  to  mythi- 
cal respectability,'  he  answered,  tes- 
tily, and  Blanche  could  not  help 
thinking  that  her  mother  had  been 
spared  the  sight  of  her  thrall  for 
some  years. 

'  Yet  she  would  have  had  me  go 
to  old  Mr.  Lyon's,'  she  answered, 
quickly.  'Well,  never  mind;  you 
have  let  me  have  a  choice — I  will 
rough  it  with  you.' 

So  the  question  was  settled,  and 
once  definitely  arranged  between 
tliem,  it  must  be  stated  in  justice  to 
Mr.  Lyon,  that  he  never  reopened  it. 
But  Mrs.  Lyon  suffered  from  an 
utter  inability  to  keep  the  peace  on 
the  subject.  Whenever  life  went 
ever  so  little  harder  than  usiuxl  with 
them,  Mrs.  Lyon  sought,  after  the 
manner  of  her  kind,  to  obviate  the 
present  difficulty  by  lamenting  the 
past  possibihty. 

'  When  I  think  how  different 
tilings  would  have  been  if  only 
Uncle  Lyon's  offer  had  been  ac- 
cepted, I  have  no  patience ;  if  my 
advice  had  been  asked  instead  of 
Blanche's ' 

'  It  wouldn't  have  been  taken  by 
Blanche,  that  is  certain,'  her  husband 
would  reply.  So  another  element  of 
discord  was  introduced ;  the  mother 
grew  to  dread  the  child,  the  child 
to  despise  the  mother. 

It  was  not  a  '  bad  blow,'  or  a 
'  terrible  shock,'  or  any  other  form 
of  woe  that  would  admit  of  conven- 
tional ex]n'ession  to  Blanche  Lyon 
when  her  father  died.  His  life  had 
shocked  her  a  great  deal  more  than 
his  death ;  he  had  fallen  away  upon 
evil  ways,  and  his  daughter  knew  it, 
and  was  grieved  alike  in  her  purity 
and  pride.  But  when  he  died  she 
was  conscious  of  rising  up  under  it, 
glad  almost  of  the  opportunity  of 
putting  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
of  the  family  coach  without  seeming 
to  usurp  his  place,  and  degrade  him 
to  the  background. 

Naturally  the  woman  who  had 
wept  at  Arthur  Lyon  almost  inces- 
santly while  he  lived,  wept  even 


more  copiously  for  him  when  he 
died.  She  was  an  exemplary  widow. 
She  felt  it  '  due  to  poor  ]\Ir.  Lyon,' 
sho  Haid,  '  to  have  tlie  best  cx&,\)Q 
and  the  widest  hem-stitched  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.'  When  she  had  got 
them  slie  could  not  pay  for  them, 
and  then  she  felt  it  due  to  the 
mournfulness  of  the  position  to  sit 
down  and  weep  over  the  inability, 
and  nearly  madden  Blanche  by  ap- 
pearing abject  before  the  draper. 

For  a  time  it  was  one  of  those 
social  mysteries  that  may  never  be 
solved  how  the  widow  and  her 
daughter  lived.  Old  Mr.  Lyon  had 
died  before  his  nephew,  and  had  not 
left  them  even  so  much  as  a  mourn- 
ing ring.  All  his  property,  personal 
and  landed,  was  left  to  a  yoimg  man 
already  possessing  a  line  estate  of 
his  oAvn,  the  son  of  a  first  cousin, 
Frank  Bathurst. 

The  fortunate  heir  had  made  one 
or  two  efforts  to  institute  friendly 
relations  with  the  widow  and  daugh- 
ter of  the  man  who  had  been  more 
nearly  related  to  old  Mr.  Lyon  than 
he  (Frank)  himself.  He  had  heard 
little  of  them  ;  they  were  but  names 
to  him,  for  old  Mr.  Lyon  rarely 
spoke  or  thought  of  people  who 
were  not  actually  engaged  in  con- 
ducing to  his  own  comfort.  Still 
though  he  had  heard  so  little  of 
them,  he  knew  that  they  were  to  be 
regarded  as  wronged,  or  rather  that 
they  might  be  forgiven  for  so  regard- 
ing themselves.  Accordingly  he 
held  out  a  fiourishmg  olive  branch, 
and  Blanche  gracefully  waived  it 
aside. 

*  What  can  the  friendship  of  a 
young  man  like  Mr.  Bathurst  do  for 
us?'  she  asked,  when  her  mother 
remonstrated  with  her  on  the  ground 
that  she  was  throwing  away  another 
chance ;  '  he's  very  kind  to  say  he 
will  call ;  he  means  well,  but  he 
needn't  do  it ;  callers  waste  so  much 
of  our  time.' 

'  Don't  utter  such  sentiments, 
Blanche;  they  are  not  natural  to 
your  age  and  station  in  Hfe.' 

Blanche  laughed. 

'  I  forget  what  my  years  are,  but 
I  have  learnt  a  good  deal  in  them 
one  way  and  another ;  as  for  my 
"  station  in  life,"  well,  mother,  I 
don't  agree  with  you  about  my  sen- 


160 


Playing  for  Iliijh  SluJcea, 


timcnts  not  lx!inf»  "iiaturul;"  tlioy 
aro  perfectly  natural;  they  accord 
with  tlic  ontwanl  niul  visible  sip7i 
of  position  I  am  at  present  luuif^ing 
out.  One  little  jiarlour,  with  a  strong 
odour  of  roast  mutton  pcrvaiingit, 
is  not  the  jdace  1  fIiouKI  caro  to 
receive  ])('i)|)le  in;  though  I  laako 
the  lio-t  of  it,  and  put  it  nicely  for 
my  pride  by  declaring  that  callers 
waste  one's  time,  and  lioj)ing  Mr. 
Frank  I5at hurst  will  stay  away.' 

'  You're  like  your  i>oor(lear  father, 
and  yon  always  stantl  in  your  own 
light,'  Mrs.  Lyon  replied. 

Then  the  suhjcet  was  dropped,  as 
far  as  words  went ;  but  Mrs.  Lyon 
recurred  to  it  often  in  what  .stood 
her  in  place  of  a  mind,  and  made 
Blanche  aware  that  she  was  doing 
so  by  dropping  tears  down  at  nn- 
cxpi.'cted  times  into  uu.seemly  places. 

If  Blanche  stood  in  her  own  light 
out  of  innate  perversity,  it  must  bo 
conceded  to  her  that  the  ground  sho 
selected  to  stand  ujion  was  liir  from 
p!e<a.«ant,  and  so  she  may  bo  ac- 
credited with  a  certain  integrity  of 
purpo.se.  She  was  the  one  sound 
plank  in  what  was  left  of  the 
wreclccd  Lyon  family,  and  so  sho 
willin-'ly  took  it  upon  herself  to 
bear  the  brunt  of  every  storm  that 
might  ari.se. 

'  We  have  nothing  to  live  upon, 
and  so  we  must  din  like  imui)er.s,' 
Mrs.  Lyon  had  remarked,  while 
Iblding  away  her  crape  upper  skirt 
on  the  day  of  her  husband's  funeral. 
'  We  must  live,  and  so  I  must  work,' 
Blanche  had  replied.  '  You  know 
you  wouldn't  like  starving,  mamma; 
and  we  are  neither  of  us  likely  to 
die  just  yet.'  Which  speech  made 
Mr.^.  Lyon  feel  very  unhai)i)y  and 
verydiscontttuted,  for  at  the  moment 
she  was  theoretically  ready  to  imder- 
go  any  martyrdom  in  order  to  ])rove 
to  survivors  that  her  dead  husb;ind 
had  shamefully  neglected  his  duty 
in  not  amply  providing  for  her  out 
of  notliing. 

Blanclies  will  to  work  had  been 
very  good,  but  sho  had  a  toiigh 
struggle  with  obstacles  of  many 
kinds  l)eforo  her  will  could  carry  her 
into  any  remunerative  path.  She 
went  tlio  weary  round  of  agency 
ofiices,  telling  the  same  outspoken 
Btorjr  at  each— 'I  want    to  mako 


enough  money  to  support  my  mo- 
ther and  myself,  and  I  want  to  mako 
it  respectably.  1  don't  exjiect  com- 
fort or  consideration.     Shall  1  do?' 

The  majority  of  ladies  to  whom 
sho  addressed  herself  declared  with 
emphasis  that  sho  would  not  do  for 
a  governess  in  their  hou.scs.  They 
either  had  marriageable  sons,  or 
daughters  who  were  engaged,  and 
in  either  case  Miss  Lyon's  brilliant 
bloom  and  beautiful  eyes  went  very 
much  against  her.  But  at  la.st  a 
mother,  with  no  such  responsibility, 
was  found,  a  huly  who  had  no  sons 
at  all,  and  who.so  eldest  daughter 
was  only  ten,  and  who  livid  invay 
so  deeply  in  the  heart  of  a  midland 
county,  in  an  old  secluded  country 
grange,  that  Blanche's  beauty,  liko 
the  famous  flower,  seemed  born  to 
blush  unseen. 

This  lady,  i\Irs.  Marsh,  was  tho 
widow  of  a  man  who  had  chanced  to 
have  business  relations  during  his 
life  with  .IMark  Sulton.  So  it  camo 
to  pass  that,  the  year  before  this 
story  opened,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutton, 
and  some  friends  of  theirs,  had  gono 
to  pass  a  fnw  fresh  invigorating  days 
down  at  Mrs.  Marsh's  jthico.  ]\Ir. 
Talbot  was  with  them,  and  when  ho 
went  back  to  town,  he  li-ft  his  heart 
with  tho  beautiful  governess  whom 
his  charnu'ng  sister,  Mrs.  Sutton, 
had  seilulously  flouted  tho  wholo 
time  they  were  together. 

Jndeed,  tho  pretty  guest  had  been 
most  sorely  tried  by  tho  re.'<ident 
beauty,  ilarian  had  gono  to  tho 
Grange  gracefully  enough  to  all 
outward  .seeming,  but  she  had  had 
a  sharp  struggle  with  her  seii.so  of 
expediency  before  sho  did  so.  Jler 
husl)and  asked  it  as  a  favour  to  him- 
self that  she  should  accept  the  invi- 
tation of  the  widow  of  his  old  friend, 
and  .Marian,  who  knew  that  it  was 
well  her  list  of  favours  shown  to 
liim  should  be  a  long  one,  made  a 
f.iir  show  of  surlaco  sweetness,  and 
went,  determining  to  make  the  best 
of  it.  She  was  well  aware  that  tho 
Grange  was  not  tho  typo  of  country 
house  where  the  time  would  fly.  Sho 
liad  a  j)rescntimont  that  it  would  be 
respectable  and  intense  ly  dull,  and 
that  .sho  should  get  to  hate  the  ex- 
cellent Jlrs.  ]\Iarsh  before  slie  had 
long  tastctl  that  lady's  hospitality. 


Playing  for  High  Slakea. 


161 


Bat  as  it  was  advisable  she  should 
go,  she  went  with  a  fair  show  of 
grace,  reflecting  that  she  could  per- 
haps ravish  the  hearts,  and  tastes, 
and  eyes  of  some  of  the  better  sort 
of  the  male  members  of  the  be- 
nighted neighbourhood  that  had 
never  seen  a  Mariau  Sutton  before. 
On  the  strength  of  this  hope  she 
had  some  very  perfectly  designed 
costumes  made  to  take  with  her, 
and  bowed  the  neck  in  getting  them 
from  Hortense.  It  was  hard  to  find 
Miss  Lyon  in  possession  after  such 
a  praiseworthy  display  of  self-abne- 
gation, and  such  tasteful  efforts  to 
make  herself  look  as  well  as  she 
could.  Hard,  very  hard,  to  feel 
that  her  prettiness  paled  before 
Blanche's  radiancy,  and  that  the 
governess  did  not  spoil  her  beauty  by 
evidencing  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  inferiority  to  Mrs.  Sutton,  as  Mrs. 
Sutton  deemed  it  only  becoming  go- 
vernesses should  do. 

'  Miss  Lyon  is  more  than  pretty, 
she  is  almost  lady-lilce,'  Marian  said 
to  her  brother  Edgar  one  morning, 
when  together  they  were  sauntering 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Grange.  *  Doyou 
admire  her  ?'  Marian  gave  him  one 
quick  glance  through  her  half-closed 
eyelids  as  she  asked  the  question, 
and  saw  that  he  coloured  as  he 
answered  it. 

*  Admire  is  a  weak  word  for  her. 
I  think  her  splendid.' 

'So  does  Mark,'  Marian  said, 
laughing.  She  knew  that  her  bro- 
ther rated  Mark  Sutton's  intellect 
very  low  indeed,  and  denied  him  all 
claim  to  the  possession  of  taste.  It 
was  pleasant,  therefore,  to  her  to  put 
Edgar  in  the  position  of  having  his 
admiration  for  Miss  Lyon  endorsed 
by  Mark  Sutton.  'So  does  Mark. 
She  is  just  the  sort  of  dashing, 
rather  loud  yoking  country  lady 
whom  Mark  would  admire.' 

'Thank  you  for  the  implication, 
Marian.* 

'  Why !  what  have  I  said  that  is 
not  quite  true?'  she  inquired,  open- 
ing her  eyes  a  little  wider  as  she 
spoke.  '  Don't  thank  me  for  im- 
plying things,  Edgar.  I  never  im- 
ply; I  speak  out.  It's  my  mis- 
fortune to  be  too  truthful.' 

'  You  have  never  suffered  from 
the  effects  of  that  misfortune  as  yet, 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  LXII, 


luckily.  Never  mind,  Marian ;  what 
more  have  you  to  say  against  Miss 
Lyon  ?' 

'Against  her?'  Mrs.  Sutton  re- 
iterated, gathering  her  skirts  awny 
from  contact  with  the  ground,  and 
putting  her  hand  through  her  bro- 
ther's arm :  '  not  a  word  againbt  her ; 
she  amuses  me  too  much.' 
'How?' 

'  Oh,  with  her  would-be  lady-like 
airs  of  quiet  reserve  when  she  is  as 
full  of  animal  spirits  as  she  can  be. 
She  is  like  all  underbred  people — 
odious  when  quiet  on  compulsion.* 

Mrs.  Sutton  spoke  with  consider- 
able animation,  in  a  ringing  treble. 
Her  hand,  too,  trembled  on  her  bro- 
ther's arm. 

'  You  speak  with  a  good  deal  of 
feeling.  What  has  Miss  Lyon  done 
to  you,  Marian  ?' 

'  Done  to  me  1'  She  laughed  and 
recovered  herself.  'Perhaps  you 
believe  that  I  am  capable  of  being 
jealous  of  Mark's  clumsily-exi^ressed 
admiration  for  her  ?' 

'If  he  were  not  your  husband  I 
should  think  so  decidedly.' 

'  But  as  he  is  my  husband  ?  My 
dear  Edgar,  pray  banish  that  notion 
from  your  mind.  He  admires  our 
cook  very  miich — she  is  Miss  Lyons 
most  formidable  rival ;  he  wavers  to 
such  a  degree  between  the  two,  that 
I  feel  my  balance  of  power  is  not 
endangered.' 

'  The  sarcasm  is  neither  very  de- 
licate nor  very  keen.  It  is  modest 
on  your  part,  though,  Marian,  to 
undervalue  Mark's  taste  in  this  way. 
He  chose  you.' 

'  Which  speech  is  full  of  the  attri- 
butes which  were  wanting  in  my 
sarcasm,'  she  replied.  '  Come,  Edgar, 
let  there  be  an  armed  neutrality  be- 
tween us  about  Miss  Lyon.  I  can- 
not endure  incivility  ;  and  you  are 
almost  capable  of  being  uncivil  to 
me  when  I  venture  to  hint  that  she 
is  not  as  absolutely  perfect  as  Mark 
thinks  her.' 

It  will  easily  be  understood  that 
after  this  I\Ii's.  Sutton  had  less  tolera- 
tion in  her  soul,  though  far  more  in 
her  speech,  for  Blanche  Lyon.  The 
girl  held  her  own  so  quietly  amongst 
them  all,  even  when  her  mother 
came  to  join  the  party  at  Mrs.  Marsh's 
considerate  invitation.     Mrs.  Lyon 

M 


162 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


fell  an  easy  and  nnsnspccting  vic- 
tiaa  into  every  pit  Mrs.  Suttrn  pre- 
pared for  her,  and  ^Irs.  Sutton  pre- 
pared many.  It  was  altogether  l>e- 
yond  the  power  of  the  pretty,  young, 
wealthy,  a<lmired  married  woman, 
to  put  the  governess  in  the  second 
place.  Mrs.  Sutton  had  quite  ex- 
hausted her  store  of  depreciatory 
devices  on  Miss  Lyon,  and  still  Miss 
Lyon  was  as  composedly  indiffen-nt 
to  her,  and  as  unfettered  in  her  in- 
tercourse with  Mr.  Sutton  and  Mr. 
Talbot  as  if  Marian  had  not  existed. 
Mrs.  Sutton  had  taken  a  patronizing 
tone,  and  Blanche  hati,  with  great 
pood  temper,  and  good  breed- 
ing, too,  made  manifest  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Sutton's  patronage  was  too 
small  a  thing  to  be  either  accepted 
or  rejected.  Then  Marian  had 
ignored  Blanche's  presence  and  re- 
marks, and  neither  Blanche's  pre- 
sence nor  remarks  grew  loss  bright 
for  the  treatment.  If  Miss  Lyon 
had  employed  a  country  dress- 
maker, and  her  waist  could  have 
been  proved  to  }^e  an  inch  too  high 
or  too  low,  too  slight  or  too  large, 
Marian  would  have  lieen  less  bitter. 
But  Miss  Lyon  daringly  employed 
the  great  Hortecse,  and  did  not  give 
Mrs.  Sutton  the  shadow  of  a  chance 
of  finding  fault.  Marian  had  almost 
given  up  the  contest,  when  Mrs. 
Lyon  came,  and  strengthened  Mrs. 
Sutton's  forces  unintentionally  at 
once. 

The  poor  lady  had  sighed  for  this 
invitation,  and  in  her  own  trans- 
parent way  had  schemed  for  it.  She 
liad  declared  her  intention  of  taking 
lodgings  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Grange  for  a  few  weeks  in  order 
to  be  near  her  child.  And  her  child 
harl  kept  the  declaration  a  dead 
secret  from  3Irs.  Marsh  while  she 
could,  and  had  se^lulously  striven  to 
alter  the  intention.  But,  like  all 
people  who  are  UDstabl'j  by  nature, 
Mrs.  Lyon  cultivat-  d  obstinacy 
under  the  name  of  strength  of  will, 
whenever  the  disjilny  of  it  seemed 
to  promise  her  one  of  thos<;  'changes 
for  the  liettcr '  wliicli  her  half  hope- 
ful, lialf  discontented  mind  had  al- 
ways craved.  This  seemcfl  to  her  a 
fitting  opportunity  for  flaunting  out 
her  limp  flag  of  defiance.  Accord- 
ingly Btie   did  it   in  a  tremolous 


manner  that  was  cs.sentially  her  own, 
and  essentially  ropupnant  to  Blanche. 
She  wrote  to  Mrs.  Marsh,  proposing 
that  Blanche  should  come  and  pass 
a  few  weeks  with  her  at  a  farm- 
hou.se  about  two  miles  from  the 
Grange,  and  during  those  weeks 
walk  backwards  and  forwards  for 
the  fulfilling  of  her  educational 
duties  towards  the  little  Marshes. 
To  the  propo-sition  of  this  plan  she 
appended  a  humble  hope  that 
Blanche  would  not  catch  a  violent 
cold  on  her  chest  in  the  course  of 
these  compulsory  walks,  and  so  de- 
velop an  hereditary  delicacy  which 
had  always  been  a  source  of  anguish 
to  her  anxious  mother.  The  reply 
to  this  letter  (the  contents  of  which 
Mrs.  ^larsh  kept  from  Blanche,  but 
which  were  told  to  her  in  a  song  of 
triumph  sung  by  ^Irs.  Lyon  as  soon 
as  she  arrived)  was  the  invitation 
which  brought  her  in  contact  with 
Mrs.  Sutton,  and  more  important 
still,  with  Edgar  Talbot. 

For  a  day  or  two  Blanche  was 
taken  in  by  the  manner  Mrs.  Sutton 
adopted  towards  Mrs.  Lyon,  but 
after  a  day  or  two  she  saw  through 
and  resented  it  as  such  a  woman 
would  resent  a  manner  that  was  the 
offspring  of  such  a  motive.  It  has 
been  said  that  Mrs.  Lyon  went  with 
celerity  into  all  the  pitftills  Mrs. 
Sutton  prepared  for  her.  She  did 
more ;  she  went  into  them  as  if  they 
were  plea.sant  places.  Under  the 
intlueoce  of  tlie  fal.so,  subtle,  fas- 
cinating allurements  of  the  soft- 
voiced  woman  with  the  tender  half- 
closed  eyes,  poor  ^Irs.  Lyon  would 
enter  upon  the  telling  of  endless 
narratives  that  were  uninteresting 
in  themselves,  that  conceraed  peo- 
ple of  whom  her  auditors  had  never 
heard,  and  that  were  singularly  void 
of  point.  And  Mrs.  Sutton  would 
listen  to  them  with  an  assumption 
of  interest  that  Blanche  felt  to  be 
insolent,  and  would  reeall  the  wan- 
dering attention  of  her  brother 
Edgar,  'and  generally  j)'jrtray  pity- 
ing condescension  towunls  a  tedious 
inferior  in  a  way  that  at  last  made 
Blanche  Lyon  writhe. 

Writhe  to  a  degree  that  at  length 
the  smaller  elements  in  her  mental 
organization  trampled  over  the 
better,  and  urged  her  to  enter  upon 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


163 


an  ignoble  contest.  Then  she  brought 
the  battery  of  her  great  beauty,  the 
wonderful  wealth  of  her  animal 
spirits,  the  subtle  charm  of  her  soul 
superiority  to  himself  to  bear  upon 
the  husband  of  the  woman  who 
sought  to  render  her  ridiculous 
through  her  mother.  She  took  the 
conversation,  as  women  of  her  mental 
calibre  know  how  to  take  it,  on  to 
ground  where  Mark  Sutton  was  very 
much  at  a  loss,  and  compelled  him 
to  join  in  it,  and  contrived  that  he 
should  do  so  to  his  disadvantage. 
In  short,  she  sought  to  shame  his 
wife  through  him  ;  sought  to  do  so 
till  she  saw  him  smart  under  the 
consciousness  of  one  of  his  blunders, 
and  then  bitterly  repented  herself 
of  the  littleness. 

There  was  nothing  attractive, 
nothing  interesting,  little  worth 
thinking  about,  in  short,  in  Mark 
Sutton.  Still  Blanche's  heart  went 
out  warmly  to  him  when  he  told 
her  that  he  'had  always  thought 
too  httle  of  himself  for  it  to  have 
been  quite  worthy  of  her  to  have 
made  him  think  less.'  The  rebuke 
was  a  bitterly  sharp  one  to  her  in 
its  moderation  and  humility.  If  the 
man  she  had_.  made  absurd  in  the 
eyes  of  others,  above  all  of  his  wife, 
if  he  had  turned  round  upon  her  as 
a  man  of  his  class  would  be  likely 
to  turn,  she  thought  she  could  have 
borne  it  better,  and  forgiven  herself 
more  readily.  But  he  was  kinder 
to  her  than  before,  kind  as  to  one 
who  had  need  of  protection  against 
herself  amongst  others. 

Blanche  Lyon  had  a  bright,  clear, 
discriminating  power,  and  she  recog- 
nized this  element,  and  acknowledged 
that  there  was  ground  for  its  being 
shown.  She  had  just  a  few  words 
of  explanation  with  him,  and  bound 
him  to  her  by  them  a  faster  friend 
than  before.  Going  to  him  one 
afternoon  as  he  was  walking  along 
between  two  high  laurel  hedges, 
with  a  little  flush  of  mingled  peni- 
tence and  pride  on  her  rounded 
healthy  cheeks,  with  a  shimmer  over 
her  grey  eyes,  and  a  touch  of  tremu- 
lousness  in  her  voice  that  appealed 
to  him  very  sweetly,  what  could  any 
man  do  but  forgive  her  when  she 
said — 

'I  have  been  made  to  smart  so 


that  like  the  scorpion  I  was  ready 
to  sting  myself,  Mr.  Sutton ;  I  did 
worse,  I  tried  to  sting  the  only 
human  being  who  cared  enough  for 
me  to  be  stung  by  my  ingratitude. 
Can  you  forgive  me?' 

She  looked  what  Edgar  Talbot 
had  called  her,  a '  splendid  creature,' 
as  she  asked  tliis.  Standmg  there 
before  him  in  her  rich,  heavily- 
falling,  violet-hued,  winter  drapei-y, 
with  her  bright  face  toned  down 
into  a  transient  tenderness  by  re- 
morse, with  all  the  winning  delica- 
cies of  her  most  winning  manner 
brought  into  such  quiet  play,  with 
the  silent  weight  of  the  pretty,  re- 
fined, feminine  tiufles  of  becoming 
hat  and  well-fitting  gloves,  and  mere 
idea  of  perfume  brought  to  bear 
upon  him^to  bear  upon  the  man 
who  had  never  known  them  in  his 
youth,  and  who  accepted  them  all 
as  badges  of  the  station  to  wliich 
he  had  climbed.  What  could  he  do 
but  forgive  her,  and  utter  the  hope 
that  he  might  be  permitted,  might 
be  able  to  befriend  her? 

'  And  if  you  ever  can,  I  will  ask 
you,'  she  said. 

'  And  I  will  do  it  while  I  live/  he 
answered. 

'  Even  against  your  wife  ?'  she  in- 
terrupted, with  a  laugh,  and  j\Iark 
Sutton's  heart  sank  and  his  colour 
rose  at  even  so  shght  an  allegation 
being  brought  against  Marian ;  but 
still  he  replied  heartily,  taking  the 
hand  of  the  girl  who  had  made  it, 

'  Even  against  Marian,  if ' 

'Let, there  be  no  "ifs"  in  the 
case.' 

IVIi's.  Sutton  herself  interrupted,' 
lovmging  forward  from  a  half-con- 
cealed seat  in  the  laurel  hedge. 

'  Excuse  me ;  I  would  have  spoken 
before  if  I  had  recognized  your 
voices,'  she  added,  carelessly ;  '  but 
I  thought  it  was  some  of  the  ser- 
vants indulging  in  a  lovers'  quarrel ; 
it  was  not  till  my  name  was  taken 

in  vain  that ' 

'  You  remeiQbered  ladies  do  not 
listen,'  Blanche  put  in,  hastily.  Then 
the  belligerents  looked  straight  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  it  occurred  to 
Mark  Sutton  that  it  might  be  very 
hard  for  him  to  keep  his  promise  of 
befriending  Blanche,  'even  agaiost 
his  wife.' 

M    2 


164 


Playing  for  High  Slakes, 


CHAPTER  V. 

CUMBERED  WITH   MUCH   BEUVINQ. 

Meanwhile  an  alliance  that  would 
have  scfuiod  very  straufjo  and  full 
of  discordant  olcnu'nts  to  ]51anohc, 
had  she  noticed  it,  had  been  formed 
lietween  Mi-s.  Lvon  and  Ed<;ar  Tal- 
bot. Almost  before  the  girl,  with 
all  her  sensitiveness,  was  conscious 
of  it,  he  marked  his  sister's  manner 
towards  Mrs.  Lyon,  and  saved  her 
from  it  as  far  as  he  could.  He  per- 
ceived at  once  that  in  her  garru- 
lousncss  lay  Mrs.  Lyon's  chief  dan- 
ger, and  Mi's.  .Sutton's  chief  chance 
of  stinging  Blanche  into  subjection. 
Therefore  he  turned  tliat  garrulou.s- 
nes3  u]i(>n  himself  as  far  as  he  could, 
devoting  himself  to  the  mother  in  a 
way  that  would  have  touched  the 
daughter  very  much  had  she  loved 
him,  but  that,  as  it  was,  simply  made 
her  regard  liim  as  a  well-meaning 
young  man  who  could  have  nothing 
in  conuBon  with  her,  since  he 
'rather  seemed  to  prefer  mammas 
tedious  talk.' 

It  must  at  once  Ix;  conceded  that 
Blanche  Lyon  was  very  far  from 
being  a  type  of  the  duteous  child  of 
real  life  or  romance,  who  can  cloud 
her  own  judgment  over  to  the  extent 
of  believing,  whatever  the  parental 
attributes,  that  they  are  perfect. 
She  never  allowed  herself  to  say  or 
look  aught  that  might  l>e  construed 
into  a  slight  upon  the  Avoman  with 
the  lukewarm  nature  and  limp  mind 
■whose  child  it  Avas  lier  mist'ortune 
to  be.  I5ut  though  slie  kept  the 
peace,  and  was  tilial  outwardly,  she 
•was  inwardly  conscious  of  all  the 
■weak  ]ilaces,  and  she  used  no  shallow 
euphemisms  in  describing  them  to 
hci-self  \Vhen  Mrs.  liyon  got  into 
a  wordy  labyrinth,  and  then  inune- 
diately  proceeded  to  display  an  im- 
patit'ut  ho])el(ssncss  about  ever  ex- 
tricating herself,  J'.dgar  Talbot  would 
put  in  a  word,  and  help  lur  to  clear 
herself  in  a  way  that  cau.mil  r.lan<ho 
to  leave  her  motlier  very  trustfully 
to  his  mercy,  but  at  the  same  time 
to  think  him  not  exactly  a  'poor 
spirited  creature,'  perhaps;  but  at 
any  rate  little  more  than  a  '  goo<l 
sort  of  young  man  who  suited 
mamma.'     llcr  own  lack  of  interest 


in,  and  appreciation  for  him,  blinded 
her  to  his  motives,  his  adiiiiration 
for  herself,  his  tenderness  for  her 
feelings,  his  anxiety  to  put  all  be- 
longing to  her  in  the  best  light— all 
these  were  lost  u]ion  her  by  reason 
of  her  heart  being  untouched  by 
him. 

Ko  it  came  about  that  when  I\Irs. 
Lyon  left  the  Grange,  and  went  back 
to  live  in  London,  her  comunuiica- 
tioiis  resi)ecting  ^Ir.  Talliot's  un- 
abated interest  in,  and  kindness  to 
her,  fell  flatly  upon  r.ianclie. 

'  It's  very  good  of  him  to  go  and 
call  on  niannna— I  siijipose  her  old 
stories  amuse  him,'  was  her  solo 
mental  comment  upon  the  fact  of 
Edgar  Talbot  having  'renewed  the 
accpiaiiituncc,  and  said  he  was  sure 
he  ho])ed  it  would  continue,'  to  use 
Mrs.  J^yon's  own  words.  Miss  Lyon 
thought  so  little  about  it,  in  fact, 
that  she  never  so  much  as  referred 
to  it  in  any  one  of  the  letters  which 
Mrs.  Lyon,  in  her  frequent  bursts  of 
maternal  pride,  would  give  him  to 
read.  Accordingly,  when  he  first 
mooted  the  plan  of  tiie  united  house- 
hold for  the  f-ake  of  his  sister  ]5eatrix, 
he  treated  it  as  ho  did  any  other 
venture,  and  declared  that  it  would 
be  injudicious  to  talk  about  it  pre- 
maturely. '  Wait  until  ]\Iiss  I>yon 
comes  home,  and  then  tell  her  Avliat 
you  have  kindly  consented  to  do  — 
her  comjianionship  will  be  invalu- 
able to  my  sister,'  he  had  said.  And 
]\Irs.  Lyon  had  refrained,  sorely 
against  her  will,  from  writing  wordy 
letters,  and  had  kept  a  silence  on 
the  subject  which  was  to  be  broken 
for  the  fir.st  time  on  this  night  of 
Blanche's  arrival. 

Mrs.  Marsh  was  going  to  break 
up  her  establishment,  put  her 
daughter  to  school,  and  go  on  the 
Continent  herself,  therefore  she  re- 
quired ^liss  Lyon's  services  no 
longer.  ]Jlancho  had  come  homo 
charged  with  good  resolutions. 
Amongst  others,  she  wius  not  going 
to  sutler  iiiijiatienco  to  obtain  for 
one  minute  in  her  heart  against  the 
weak  one  who  should  have  l)e(;n  her 
support,  and  who  in  all  things  had 
to  lean  \\])<m  her.  Additionally,  she 
was  going  to  spend  the  three  or  four 
montli.s'  lioiid.iys  slii^  meant  to  take 
in  learning  some  language  or  accom- 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


166 


plishment  which  should  fit  her  to 
take  some  better  situation  than  she 
had  hitherto  held.  The  conscious- 
ness of  being  fraught  with  good  in- 
tentions came  to  her  aid  happily, 
and  tided  her  over  the  irritating 
half-hour  of  confusion,  complaining, 
and  explanation  which  succeeded 
her  advent.  Mrs.  Lyon  was  a 
woman  who  was  utterly  incapable 
of  letting  a  fact  speak  for  itself. 
The  dinner  was  late — the  dinner  is 
very  apt  to  be  late  where  unceasing 
fuss  and  one  female  servant  reign 
alone.  Blanche  could  have  borne 
this  with  composure,  as  she  had  not 
set  her  hopes  on  dining  the  moment 
she  arrived.  What  she  found  hard 
to  bear  was  being  told  it  was  late, 
and  why  it  was  late— a  stream  of 
narration  which  was  swollen  con- 
tinually by  many  wayside  springs  of 
explanation  concerning  all  the  nouns 
incidentally  mentioned.  It  was  hard, 
very  hard,  indeed,  for  the  girl  who 
had  a  good  heavy  weight  upon  her, 
made  up  of  many  things,  to  listen 
patiently  to  the  tale  of  the  green- 
grocer's laxity,  the  butcher-boy's 
peccadilloes,  and  the  servant's  gene- 
ral iniquities. 

'  I  do  not  mind  for  myself,'  Mrs. 
Lyon  wound  up  with,  when  the 
wearied  Blanche  drew  a  quick  breath 
that  was  as  much  of  a  sigh  as  a 
sensible  woman  can  ever  permit 
herself  to  heave,  and  this  not  out  of 
impatience  at  any  of  the  ills  to  wliich 
the  livers  on  narrow  incomes  are 
heir,  but  at  the  manner  of  their 
recital,  'I  do  not  mind  for  myself;  I 
never  expect  to  be  anything  but 
worried  and  uncomfortable;  but  I 
do  wish  to  make  your  home  pleasant 
to  you.' 

*  Then,  mother,  let  me  do  all  the 
fault-finding,'  Blanche  answered, 
brightly.  '  You  sit  down  and  take 
things  easy.' 

*Ah!'  Mrs.  Lyon  said,  shaking 
her  head,  and  rising  up  laboriously 
to  move  two  or  three  things  that 
might  with  perfect  propriety  have 
remained  where  they  were,  '  it's 
easy  to  talk :  your  poor  dear  father 
always  spoke  as  if  regulating  a 
household,  and  having  things  nice 
and  comfortable,  was  no  more 
trouble  than  taking  a  walk.' 

'  But  you  don't  have  things  nice 


and  comfortable,  with  all  the  fuss 
you  make.'  Blanche  only  thought 
this  sentence,  she  did  not  say  it. 
All  she  said  was,  '  I  daresay  you 
are  right,  mamma;  but  comfort  is 
a  most  uncomfortable  thing.'  Then 
she  took  off  her  hat  and  threw  it 
back  on  to  the  sideboard  (when 
Mrs.  Lyon  followed  it  as  if  it  might 
have  done  some  damage  to  the  nor- 
mal decorations  of  tiiat  piece  of 
furniture,  if  it  were  not  carefully 
supervised),  and  then  she  threw  off 
a  good  deal  of  the  brightness  with 
which  she  had  come  into  the  room, 
and  sat  down  rather  sadly,  under  the 
conviction  that  her  good  resolutions 
would  be  utterly  routed  before 
long. 

Down  at  the  Grange  there  had 
been  an  easy-going  refinement  per- 
vading all  the  arrangements — a  re- 
finement that  came  as  much  from 
the  mistress  having  a  clear  head,  as 
it  did  from  her  having  a  full  purse ; 
but  here,  up  in  this  little  cramped 
lodging,  where  the  head  and  purse 
of  the  presiding  domestic  deity 
were  alike  badly  supplied,  there 
was  a  good  deal  that  was  temper- 
trying  and  unavoidable,  and  (which 
was  worse)  there  was  a  good  deal 
that  was  temper-trying  and  avoid- 
able. Probably  the  race  of  IMarthas 
— the  women  who  are  cumbered 
with  much  serving — will  survive 
and  flourish  unto  the  last.  It  may 
be  for  our  good  that  they  should  do 
so.  In  some  cases  the  end  does 
justify  the  means ;  as,  for  instance, 
when  vaccination  causes  small-pox 
to  be  lightly  taken,  or  when  mis- 
sionary pie  brings  one  savage  of 
delicate  digestion  to  a  sense  of  the 
superiority  of  living  preaching  mis- 
sionaries over  the  preparation  which 
has  disagreed  with  him.  But,  in  the 
majority  of  every-day  matters,  the 
end  is  too  small  for  fussy  means  to 
be  forgiven. 

'  I  am  sure,  the  day  I  have  had ! 
— not  a  moment  to  call  my  own 
since  I  got  out  of  bed,  Blanche!' 
Mrs.  Lyon  commenced,  piteously, 
when  the  chicken  made  its  appear- 
ance at  last,  and  the  two  ladies  sat 
down  to  dinner. 

'  How  happy  you  must  have  been,' 
Blanche  answered,  with  most  inju- 
dicious truthfulness.    It  was  a  fact 


166 


Playing  for  Ilijli  Stnlcet. 


flint  Jfrs.  Lyon  never  was  so  ca«:y 
in  lior  mind  as  wlicn  she  was  actively 
employed  in  contrihutinp:  to  con- 
fusiun  ;  hnt  it  was  a  fact  tlio  men- 
tion of  wliieh  she  always  rasenteil. 

'  Ilajiin!'  she  echoed,  pausing:  in 
her  employment  about  tlie  touglicst 
jiart  of  the  wing.  '  Hajipy !  it  is 
very  little  hapjiiness  I  have  known 
in  life,  Blandie— very  little,  as  I 
have  told  your  poor  dear  father  over 
and  over  again.' 

'What  a  comfort  it  must  have 
been  to  my  father  to  liear  you  say 
80.'  BlancJie  had  rcmcmlK;red  her 
good  resolutions  by  tliis  time;  so, 
though  she  could  not  resist  making 
the  speech,  she  made  it  in  her 
liglitest,  plea-tjantest  manner, 

'lam  afraid  lie  cared  very  little 
about  it,'  ]\Irs.  I>yon  replied,  patheti- 
cally. Tlien  she  slicd  a  tear  or  two, 
and  liafl  to  stop  to  chase  them  down 
her  cheeks  and  dry  them  before  they 
escaped.  ^Meanwhile  the  chicken 
grew  cold,  and  Blanche  had  time  to 
wonrler  whether  it  had  been  quite 
worth  while  to  spend  the  whole  day 
in  designing  and  striving  after  a 
consummation  that  was  suffered  to 
spoil  when  achieved. 

'  Tell  me  some  of  the  things  you 
have  lx?en  busy  about,  mamma,' 
Blanche  asked,  liastily.  And  then 
Mrs.  Lyon  entered  upon  a  narrative 
that  reminded  her  daughter  of  the 
famous  brook,  in  that  it  bid  fair  to 
go  on  '  for  ever.*  A  narrative  that 
wound  round  and  round  the  ori- 
ginal subject  which  it  had  profes.sed 
to  treat  of  at  starting,  cleverly 
avoiding  tliat,  and  embracing  in- 
stead a  variety  of  topics  that  had 
no  connectir)n  whatever  with  any- 
thing alKjut  which  Blanche  ever  had 
heard,  or  ever  could  desire  to  hear. 

The  truth  was  that  Mrs.  Lyon 
was  striving  to  brace  herself  for  the 
leap  she  had  prumised  Edgar  Talbot 
to  rise  at,  liy  taking  a  conversa- 
tional preliminary  canter.  She 
rather  areailcd  the  lf»k  the  an- 
nouncement might  call  into  life  in 
her  daughter's  great,  grey,  honest 
eyes.  More,  she  rather  dreaded  a 
definite  refusal  on  Blanche's  part 
to  accompany  hir  to  Mr.  Talbot's 
house,  there  to  play  the  part  of  social 
guardian-angel  to  Mr.  Talbot's 
sister. 


Mrs.  Lyon  broke  the  tidings,  in 
what  she  conceived  to  be  a  singularly 
diplomatic  way.  She  waited  till 
Blanche  (tired  out  with  her  journey 
and  several  hours'  hard  hunting 
after  her  mother's  meaning,  which 
had  been,  as  usual,  sedulously  con- 
cealed in  many  words)  went  up  to 
her  own  room  and  prepared  to  go 
to  bed. 

To  bed,  but  not  to  sleep ;  for 
Mrs.  Lyon  followed  her  with  a 
glass  of  warm  sherry  and  water,  a 
beverage  wilh  whicli  Blanche  was 
unsympathetic,  the  mere  sight  and 
faint  odour  of  whicli  brought  back 
memories  of  chiUlish  illnesses  and 
general  debility.  Mrs.  Lyon  followed 
her  with  this  draught  and  the 
words — 

'  My  dear  Blanche,  what  do  you 
think  of  this  plan. of  Mr.  Talbot's?' 
Inying  a  slight  stress  on  the  words 
'  what  do  you  think,' as  if  the  matter 
had  been  before  Blanche  for  some 
time,  and  had  been  a  subject  of  free 
discussion  between  Mrs.  Lyon  and 
others. 

'  Mr.  Tallwt !  —  :Mrs.  Sutton's 
brotlier?  I  don't  think  I  know  any 
plan  of  his,' Blanche  replied,  raii^iug 
hcr.self  up  and  leaning  on  her 
elbow. 

'  Then  I  may  as  well  tell  you  to- 
night, to  give  you  something  jilea- 
saiit  to  dream  about,'  the  elder  lady 
rejoined,  with  a  little  affected  air  of 
jocularity  that  was  very  pitiable. 
Then  she  went  on  to  tell  what  Mr. 
Taliiot  had  thought,  and  she  had 
thought  first ;  and  then  what  each 
of  them  had  said  to  the  other,  and 
then  what  each  had  thought  the 
other  would  tliiiik,  and  then  what 
both  had  said  Blanche  would  think, 
until  she  swam  away  info  a  haven 
of  sati.-faclion  out  of  the  dangerous 
difHculties  of  the  ocean  of  words  .sho 
herself  had  created.  'There,  now 
go  to  sleep  and  dream  about  it,  and 
ask  no  questions  untd  the  morning,' 
she  interrupted,  rather  qutrulously, 
when  Blanche  Itegan,'  But,  mamma.' 
The  interruption  fell  on  deaf  cars, 
however  ;  Blanche  would  not  go  to 
sleep  and  dream  about  if  just  yet. 

'  To  manage  Mr.  Talbot's  house 
and  his  sister!  What  is  his  sister"? 
an  infant  or  an  idiot?' 

'  Beally,  Blanche,  no  one,  to  hear 


Playing  for  High  Stahea. 


167 


yon,  wonld  believe  how  carcfi;!  I 
always  have  been  in  my  own  lan- 
guage. Choice !  I  was  considered 
quite  choice  in  my  expressions  when 
I  was  a  girl ;  and  I  am  sure  for 
years  after  my  marriage  your  father 
never  heard  mo  say  a  word  that  the 
"whole  world  might  not  have  heard.' 

'  I  dare  say  not,  poor  papa !'  the 
girl  cried,  with  petulant  irreverence. 
'  Never  mind  my  bad  language  to- 
night, though,  mother,  —  tell  me 
more  of  this  plan ;  tell  me  some- 
thing I  can  hear  with  patience; — 
tell  me,  you  have  not  agreed  to  put 
yourself  and  me  in  the  position  of 
servants  in  IMr.  Talbot's  bouse.' 

She  spoke  fast  and  earnestly. 
Her  mother,  in  describing  the  tones 
Blanche  used  on  the  occasion,  after- 
wards, to  the  sympathising  Mrs. 
Sutton,  denominated  them  '  fierce.' 

'I  am  to  be  Miss  Talbot's  cha- 
peron.' 

Blanche  laughed  out  merrily. 
The  absurdity  would  touch  herself 
she  knew ;  still  she  could  not  help 
seeing  the  humour  of  it  all,  and 
laughing  at  it  for  the  time. 

*  And  I — what  am  I  to  be  ?'  she 
inquired. 

'  You  are  to  be  Miss  Talbot's  com- 
panion— treated  quite  like  her  sister; 
and  really,  Blanche,  I  do  not  see 
that  a  companion  is  so  much  lower 
than  a  governess,'  Mrs.  Lyon  added, 
hurriedly.  Then  she  went  on  to 
cry  a  little,  and  to  say  that  this  was 
a  prospect  that  opened  up  some- 
thing like  peace,  and  comfort,  and 
security  to  her — things  (she  would 
mention  incidentally)  which  had 
hitherto  been  denied  to  her.  But  of 
course  she  should  have  to  give 
them  up,  and  go  on  living  the  life 
of  privation,  not  to  say  misery,  for 
"which  she  had  been  expressly  born ! 

Then  Blanche  had  to  perform  a 
humiliating  task :  to  argue  against 
her  own  judgment,  for  the  sake  of 
rescuing  her  mother  from  the 
watery  abyss  over  which  the  latter 
insisted  on  hovering.  She  reminded 
herself  that  she  was  not  sure  of 
being  able  to  do  better  for  Mrs. 
Lyon  than  Mrs.  Lyon  proposed 
doing  for  herself,  and  she  sedulously 
strove  to  cultivate  the  feeling  that 
it  was  unworthy  of  her  to  imagine 
that  there  would  be  any  degradation 


in  going  in  a  subordinate  position  to 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Sutton's  brother. 
The  mere  thought  of  her  fair,  inso 
lent,  skilful  antagonist  bronght"  her 
worst  qualities  vigorously  to  the 
surface.  '  If  she  docs  not  keep  the 
peace  from  the  first — from  the  very 
first — keep  it  fairly,  and  never  try 
to  deal  me  a  foul  blow,  I  will  strike, 
— and  wound  her,  too,'  she  thought, 
as  she  turned  her  hot,  throbbing 
brow  from  the  light  and  pressed  it 
into  the  pillow,  when  at  last  her 
mother  left  her  alone— but  not  to 
sleep. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE  FAMILY    PARTY. 

Mrs.  Sutton  had  certainly  not  neg- 
lected one  of  the  primary  duties  of 
woman  on  the  night  of  the  family 
dinner  party  to  which  she  had  asked 
Mr.  Bathurst.  She  was  looking  her 
best;  there  had  been  no  counting 
the  cost  in  the  creation  of  the  rich 
costume  that  seemed  only  a  fitting 
finish  to  her  prettiness — it  was  so 
perfect  in  its  unobtrusiveness.  Hav- 
ing abstained — as  may  be  remem- 
bered— from  going  to  oifer  Beatrix  a 
hint  on  the  subject  of  her  dress,  she 
was  rather  disappointed  to  find,  on 
Beatrix's  entrance,  that  the  hint 
would  have  been  superfluous.  Miss 
Talbot  having  dressed  the  situation 
capitally.  Securely  as  Mrs.  Sutton 
stood  in  the  centre  of  her  own  rich 
draperies,  she  did  feel  her  heart 
hardening  against  the  younger  sis- 
ter, who,  coming  straight  from  the 
wilds  of  the  country,  dared  not 
alone  to  know  what  to  wear,  but 
how  to  wear  it. 

As  a  rule  family  parties  must  be 
admitted  to  be  very  trying  things. 
They  are  pleasant  to  read  about 
when  they  are  treated,  for  example, 
as  Dickens  treated  the  Wardles,  in 
'  Pickwick.'  Still  we  cannot  help 
being  struck  by  the  great  truth  that 
even  the  Manor  Farm  might  have 
been  dull,  even  at  that  hilarious 
season  of  the  year,  if  it  had  not  been 
enlivened  by  the  presence  of  the 
Pickwickians — and  introduced  to  us 
by  Charles  Dickens. 

Mrs.  Sutton  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated all  the  difficulties  attendant 


168 


Playing  for  Ilijh  Staiet, 


on  making  a  family  dinner  party  po 
off  well.  The  thorongh  apprecia- 
tion was  not  the  result  of  experience, 
for  it  was  the  first  time  her  brothers 
and  sisters  had  met  together  under 
her  roof,  and  Murk  was  too  com- 
pletely the  result  of  circumstances 
for  any  material  family  connections 
he  might  have,  to  crtme  under 
Marian's  consideration.  But  though 
she  had  had  no  practice  in  the  art, 
her  theory  about  it  was  very  ]>erftct. 

'  The  salvation  of  the  affair  will 
be,  that  two  of  us  know  nothing 
whatever  about  each  other  or  the 
rest,'  Mrs.  Sutton  had  said  to  herself 
while  dressing.  *  Trixy  and  Lionel 
will  assemble  themselves  together 
here  with  as  much  faith  in  us  all 
and  our  surroundings  as  if  they 
were  strangers  to  us.'  Mrs.  Sutton 
laughed  a  pleasantly  derisive  little 
laugh,  as  she  thought  this,  and 
looked  at  herself  so  sweetly  in  the 
glass,  that  her  maid  thought  it 
an  auspicious  moment  to  hint  how 
acceptable  her '  wages '  would  be  to 
her.  At  the  sound  of  the  word  the 
fair,  innocent-browed,  well-to-do 
beauty's  face  clouded,  and  she 
turned  impatiently  irom  the  glass. 

'  I  have  told  you,  over  and  over 
again,  that  I  will  pay  you  when  I 
can,  Piickson.  What  is  the  use  of 
your  worrying  me  about  it?  You 
are  all  alike — a  set  of  spoi.t  extor- 
tionists. Hortense  would  not  have 
charged  any  one  else  three  guineas 
a  yard  for  tliis  laco,  that  looks 
nothing  now  it  is  on ;  and  as  for 
you,  with  the  things  I  am  always 
giving  you,  you  are  as  well-diessed 
as  I  am  myself.' 

Rickson  had  lived  with  the  syren- 
voiced  ludy  ever  since  her  marriage, 
and  was  attached  to  her  after  a 
fashion.  Mrs.  Sutton  was  one  of 
those  women  who  wound,  and 
wrong,  and  in.sult  with  soft  hand, 
and  kind  eyes,  and  gentle  tones.  It 
was  almost  impossible  to  feel  angry 
with  her,  or  to  ileein  her  in  the  wrong 
if  she  deigned  to  desire  tliat  any  one 
should  feel  pleased  with  her,  and 
consider  her  in  the  right.  She  would 
falsify  facts,  trick,  deceive,  deal  in 
any  form  of  treachery,  in  short 
But  she  did  it  all  pleasantly;  and 
bo,  some  way  or  other,  thoufrh  she 
was  found  out  continually,  her  de- 


pendents stood  by  her,  and  served 
lier,  and  suffered  for  it.  It  was  her 
specialty  to  be  sweet  and  gentle, 
feminine  and  pleasant.  Given  the 
object  Lady  MacK'th  had  to  pain, 
and  she  would  have  ])Iaye<l  Lady 
Macl>eth'spart.  But  she  would  tirst 
have  made  Macduff  love  her  for  her 
tenderness  and  delicacy  and  for  her 
fair  innocent  beauty,  that  she  might 
have  killed  him  the  more  conve- 
niently while  his  admiration  was 
at  its  height,  with  a  nice  clean 
dagger. 

So  now,  though  she  spoke  impa- 
tiently to  Rickson,  and  would  not, 
like  Hope,  tell  a  '  flattering  tale '  of 
prompt  payment,  there  fell  the 
magic  mantle  of  her  pleasant  man- 
ner l)etween  herself  and  her  servant, 
who  showed  her  sense  of  that  man- 
ner's artistic  merit  by  being  far  less 
uncivil  than  she  thought  she  dared 
to  be. 

Nevertheless,  though  the  subject 
was  dropped  almost  as  soon  as 
started,  it  had  brought  the  fact  of 
there  being  several  serious  crumples 
in  her  rose-leaf  prominently  l)efore 
Mrs.  Sutton.  She  set  her  little, 
white,  straight  teeth  together  sa- 
vagely as  her  sister  came  into  the 
drawing-room,  rememV)ering  that 
Beatrix  had  it  all  before  her— had  a 
fair  start — might  marry,  and  carry 
on  the  war  as  brilliantly  as  she 
(Marian)  was  doing  it,  without  one 
of  Marian's  inward  pangs. 

For  pretty  Mrs.  Sutton  had  these 
occasionally.  She  was  not  one  of 
the  successful  sinners  of  romance, 
who  do  all  sorts  of  reprehensible 
things,  with  a  conscience  unclouded 
as  their  cheeks.  ^Mrs.  Sutton  told 
stories,  and  deceived  her  husband, 
and  got  herself  into  debts  and  diffi- 
culties through  pursuing  a  tortuons 
course,  when  fair  sailing  would 
have  carried  her  clear  of  all  such 
things.  But  she  did  not  sin  with 
impunity.  She  was  horribly  fright- 
ened at  times — she  was  brought  so 
very  low,  at  others,  as  to  have  to  put 
on  a  fair  surface-seeming  to  her  in- 
feriors ;  she  went  al)out  in  daily 
danger  of  being  found  out.  And 
though  she  fully  deserved  it  all,  it 
being  her  desert  did  not  make  the 
inward  pangs  less  bard  for  a  woman 
to  bear. 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


169 


It  may  be  doubted  whether  she 
euffcied  in  her  conscience.  It  may, 
indeed,  be  doubted  whether  she  had 
any  conscience  at  all,  in  the  proper 
acceptation  of  the  word.  Her  two 
strongest  qualities  were  thoughtless- 
ness and  vanity,  and  these  do  not 
conduce  much  to  the  preservation, 
far  less  cultivation,  of  any  conscience 
with  which  a  human  being  may 
originally  have  been  endowed.  But 
however  it  may  have  been  about 
that,  it  is  undoubtedly  a  fact  that 
she  went  through  many  a  quaking 
time  when  her  pride  of  place,  her 
power  of  creating  and  keeping  ad- 
miration, her  domestic  position  was 
endangered.  For  all  her  well-bred 
little  airs  and  graces,  she  had  it  in 
her  to  be  very  much  of  a  sycophant 
— had  it  in  her  to  trail  her  nut- 
brown  tresses  in  the  dust  in  private 
rather  than  have  them  lowered  one 
inch  in  public,  even  though  there 
was  no  moral  degradation  in  such 
lowering. 

She  had  banished  the  sharp  ex- 
pression of  savage  jealousy  before 
Beatrix  had  time  to  see  that  it  was 
more  than  a  welcoming  smile — ban- 
ished it,  and  substituted  one  of 
young  matronly  dignity,  that  sat 
very  gracefully  upon  her  almost 
girlish  beauty,  Frank  Bathurst 
thought.  During  the  first  ten  mi- 
nutes of  being  with  the  two  sisters, 
Mr.  Bathurst  made  many  profound 
and  original  observations  to  himself 
on  the  superiority  of  perfect  tact, 
grace,  and  style  over  mere  '  perfect 
beauty,'  as  shown  in  the  favourable 
contrast  Mrs.  Sutton  offered  to  her 
younger  sister.  It  did  not  occur  to 
him  at  the  time  that  the  contrast 
might  not  have  been  so  markedly  in 
favour  of  the  married  woman  had 
she  not  happened  to  be  apparently 
absorbed  in  something  he  himself 
was  saying  to  her.  When  he  men- 
tioned afterwards  to  Lionel  that 
'Mrs.  Sutton  talked  well,'  Lionel 
knew  enough  of  his  friend  and  his 
sister  to  feel  certain  that  the  latter 
had  listened  admiringly. 

But  when  they  got  themselves 
seated  round  the  dinner-table,  the 
inferiority  of  perfect  beauty  was  less 
patent  to  IMr.  Frank  Bathurst.  He 
saw  that  there  was  a  touch  of  no- 
bihty  about  the  girl  opposite  to  him 


which  her  pretty  married  sister 
lacked.  Beatrix  had  not  a  vivacious 
face,  but  she  had  a  face  that  was 
capable  of  very  intense  expression, 
and  this  capability  made  itself  mani- 
fest to  the  artist  at  a  very  early 
stage  of  the  dinner,  and  brought 
him  very  much  under  her  banner, 
though  he  was  ignorant  of  the  cause 
that  called  forth  that  intensity.  For 
want  of  some  more  interesting  topic 
which  should  have  a  common  in- 
terest, they  had  been  speaking  of 
some  of  the  extravagances  of  the 
day,  and  Edgar  Talbot  had  quoted 
some  of  the  dull  and  dead  season 
letters  to  the  '  Times '  about  it. 

'  From  a  man's  point  of  view,  it's 
simply  feeble  the  way  in  which  you 
ladies  haunt  certain  shops  and  mil- 
liners' establishments,'  Mr.  Talbot 
said  to  Mrs.  Sutton;  'you  order 
your  dress,  and  take  a  fair  amount 
of  time  to  do  it,  and  then  you  give  a 
few  more  days  to  the  buttons,  and 
the  band,  and  the  trimming.  I 
won't  have  you  spoil  Beatrix, 
Marian.' 

'  Marian  has  commenced  well,  at 
any  rate,'  her  husband  put  in.  Then 
(he  was  off  guard  for  once)  he 
added,  '  She  tells  me  she  did  not 
even  take  her  sister  near  Hortense 
yesterday.' 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  remembered 
himself — remembered  how  he  had 
seen  his  wife's  carriage  at  the  dress- 
maker's door,  and  his  heart  smote 
him  as  he  looked  at  Beatrix  and 
saw  the  same  look  of  intense,  hot 
scorn  on  her  face  which  Frank  was 
just  admiring. 

Like  a  cat,  Mrs.  Sutton  invaiiably 
offered  a  velvet  paw,  keeping  the 
claws  well  back,  and  purred  when 
she  dared  not  scratch.  She  dared 
not  scratch  now ;  every  one  of  the 
people  present  could  be,  and  should 
be,  useful  to  her.  So  she  said,  quite 
suavely — 

'Trixy  finds  the  room  too  hot; 
she  is  quite  flushed.  Take  my  ad- 
vice, Edgar,  and  have  a  nice  perfo- 
rated oak  screen  put  up  in  your 
room  before  you  begin  giving  din- 
ners. When  do  the  Lyons  come  to 
you?' 

The  diversion  was  perfect.  Mr. 
Bathurst  ceased  in  an  instant  to 
admire   Miss   Talbot's   expression. 


170 


Playing  for  High  StnJces. 


and  to  poriflcr  over  what  conld  have 
called  it  into  l)einR. 

'The  liVons,'  ho  repeated,  ad- 
dressing jfr.  Taltiot;  'do  you  know 
any  Lyons  ?' 

'I  know  a  Mrs.  Lyon  and  her 
danp^htcr,'  Edgar  replied,  rather 
stiffly.  IIo  exceedingly  disliked 
having  to  offer  up  explanations  con- 
cerning his  relations  with  the  Lyons 
to  chance  questioners. 

'  We  all  know  ^Irs.  Lyon  and  her 
daughter,'  Mrs.  Sutton  went  on  to 
explain,  '  and  we  aro  all  very  inneh 
at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Lyon  and  her 
daughter,  aro  we  not,  Mark  ?' 

'  I  am  more  than  rather  interested. 
I  have  some  cousins — distant  cousins 
— of  tho  name  of  Lyon.  Is  Miss 
Lyon  called  Blanche  ?' 

*Yes,  the  children  used  to  call 
her  Blanche  sometimes/  Mrs.  Sutton 
replied. 
'  Children — what  children?' 
'  The  children  where  she  was 
governess,'  Mrs.  Sutton  said,  quietly. 
And  something  in  her  tone  brought 
tho  blood  to  tho  brows  of  tho  two 
men  to  whom  Blanche  was  nearest, 
the  one  through  his  love  for,  the 
other  through  his  relationship  to 
her.  Frank  Bathurst  was  tho  first 
to  speak. 

'  She  went  out  as  a  governess,  did 
she?  A  high-spirited  girl,  as  she 
ought  to  be,  coming  of  that  stock.' 

Then  he  told  tho  story  of  old  Mr. 
Lyon's  request,  and  rage  at  Blanche 
Lyon  refusing  it ;  and  when  ho  had 
finished,  Mrs.  Sutton  felt  very  sorry 
that  she  had  spoken  about  the  Lyons 
at  all.  She  had  still  ono  more 
charge  in  tho  gun  she  always  car- 
ried against  Blanche  Lyon,  and  this 
she  contrived  to  deliver  in  the  course 
of  tho  evening.  But  she  sent  it 
homo  to  tho  'one'  alone— she  felt 
that  at  dinner  she  had  not  been 
diplomatic. 

As  soon  a.s  tho  two  sisters  found 
themselves  alone  in  tho  drawing- 
room,  Mrs.  Sutton  realized  that  she 
must  talk  very  fa.st  and  very  forf  il)ly 
in  order  to  keep  Trixy  from  uttering 
tho  reproachful  words  she  was  evi- 
dently burning  to  utter  relative  1o 
Madame  Ilortcnse.  She  had  no  dis- 
trust of  her  own  powers  of  managing 
to  avoid  hearing  unplea.^ant  things. 
A  few  minutes  spent  in  saying  pretty 


things  fluently,  then  a  few  minutes' 
sleep,  or  assumption  of  it,  and  then 
the  men  would  come  in,  and  '  decent 
sisterly  feeling  would  prevent  Trixy' 
speaking.  INIrs.  Sutton  was  great 
about  many  things,  but  perhaps  she 
was  greatest  of  all  about  tho  moral 
and  social  responsibilities  of  others. 
Accordingly  she  commenced  at 
onco,  while  wheeling  one  little  couch 
round  nearer  to  tho  fire  to  make 
'  Trixy  comfortable,'  and  ])ushing 
another  back  into  her  own  pet 
corner,  where  were  low  seats  for 
satellites. 

'  Very  good  looking  Damon  and 
Pythias  are.' 

'  You  mean  Lionel  and  his  friend  ?* 
Trixy  asked. 

'  Yes,  of  course  I  do.  What  a 
fortunate  thing  it  is  for  us  all  that 
Lionel  did  not  go  into  the  bondage 
of  an  artistic  friendship  with  ono  of 
the  many  untidy  and  poor  young 
men  who  paint,  and  whose  name  is 
legion.' 

Marian  paused,  and  Trixy  was  on 
the  point  of  saying  a  word  as  to  tho 
possibility  of  the  untidy  and  poor 
young  man  lx;ing  not  utterly  devoid 
of  merit.  A  moment's  consideration 
saved  her  from  the  error.  I\Iarian 
had  not  impugned  their  merit ;  she 
had  only  said  it  was  a  comfort  to 
tho  family  that  Jjionel  had  not 
formed  a  friendship  for  one  of  them. 
Probably  she  was  right. 

'  It  is  an  immense  satisfaction  to 
me  that  he  is  what  he  is,'  Marian 
went  on.  '  I  am  fiar  too  fond  of  ray 
brothers,'  she  added,  piously,  '  not 
to  feel  it  my  duty  to  sec  a  great  deal 
of  them ;  a  married  sister  can  be  of 
such  immense  service  to  a  young 
man,  can  sho  not?' 

The  climax  was  weak.  Beatrix 
had  been  feeling  her  painful  in- 
feriority and  utter  uselessness  as  an 
'  unmarried  sister,'  but  she  was  jiar- 
tially  restored  by  the  apjx'al. 

'  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  can, 
and  that  you  are,  Marian,'  sho  re- 
plied, laughing.  'Do  your  good 
oflices  extend  to  their  friends?' 

'  When  their  friends  aro  like  Mr. 
Bathurst,  and  I  have  a  beautiful 
sister,  who  is  still  Miss  Talbot,  near 
mo,  yes.  Tho  story  tells  itself,  with- 
out trouble,  Trixy;  my  experience 
of  men  with  those  heavenly  blue 


Playing  for  High  Slakes, 


171 


eyes  is,  that  they  fall  in  lovo  with 
every  lovcable  earthly  creature  they 
meet.' 

Amonpjst  other  girlish  attributes, 
Miss  Talbot  had  a  fair  sense  of  her 
own  importance.  She  did  not  hold 
it  absolutely  necessary  that  other 
lips  and  other  hearts  should  have 
played  no  part  in  the  past  of  the 
one  who  might  hope  to  win  her  in 
the  present.  She  did  not  hold  this 
absolutely  necessary.  At  the  same 
time,  it  would  be  a  first  condition 
with  her  that  she  should  reign,  and 
reign  alone.    So  now  she  said — 

'My  experience  of  men  with 
heavenly  blue  eyes  is  yet  to  be 
gained,  and  will  not  be  from  Mr. 
Bathurst.' 

'I  have  heard  those  decisions 
against  a  man's  suit,  before  it  has 
been  proffered,  made  before  to-day, 
Trixy,'  Mrs.  Sutton  said,  in  her 
most  dulcet  accents,  stretching  her 
feet  out  so  that  the  dainty  silk  shoes, 
with  their  big  rosettes,  just  escaped 
below  her  robe.  '  Don't  deter- 
mine too  resolutely  against  Frank 
Bathurst ;  his  eyes  will  upset  your 
strongest  resolutions,  if  he  ever 
brings  them  to  bear  upon  you.' 

*1  will  give  him  up  to  Miss 
Lyon,  she  has  the  prior  claim,' 
Trixy  said,  laughing.  And  then 
Mrs.  Sutton  sat  up  and  pushed  her 
brown  hair  back  off  her  forehead, 
and  suffered  her  eyes  to  scintillate. 

'You  will  be  weak— weak  is  no 
word  for  it, — you  will  be  foolish 
and  wrong  to  the  last  degree,  if  you 
suffer  that  girl  to  be  in  Edgar's 
house  for  a  week,  Trixy ;  she  will 
marry  him  and  lead  him  like  a 
blind  dog !' 

'  And  if  she  does  ?' 

'If  she  does! — you  ask  it  coolly 
enough  now  ;  but,  take  my  word 
for  it,  you  will  know  the  reason 
why  it  would  be  better  she  should 
not,  before  she  has  been  his  wife  a 
month.  She  is  artful,  designing, 
unscrupulous,  and  clever.' 

Mrs.  Sutton  spoke  fast  and 
forcibly,  but  neither  loudly  nor 
coarsely.  She  panted  out  her  de- 
nunciation of  Miss  Lyon  much  as  a 
silver  bell  might  'ring  out'  the 
falseness  of  the  epoch  with  its 
tinkling  chimes.  In  the  face  of  the 
knowledge  she  had   that   Marian 


could  diverge  from  the  truth  to  suit 
her  own  convenience,  without  effort 
or  scruple,  and  despite  her  brother 
Edgar's  caution  on  the  subject, 
Beatrix  was  conscious  of  being  con- 
siderably carried  by  the  fascinating 
homilist  on  the  sofa. 

'  You  know  something  to  her  dis- 
advantage, Marian  ? — you  could  not 
be  so  bitter  against  this  girl  for 
nothing,'  Trixy  asked,  unguardedly. 
And  Mrs.  Sutton  said  to  herself, '  I 
wish  I  did,'  and  to  her  sister — 

'  I  know  nothing ;  but  I  have  my 
instincts— a  pure  woman's  instincts 
seldom  mislead,  Trixy,'  she  con- 
tinued, with  a  brilliantly  rapid 
assumption  of  the  best  British 
matron  manner.  Then  they  had  to 
cease  from  the  subject,  for  Lionel 
and  Mr.  Bathurst  came  in  to  ask  if 
they  might  take  their  coffee  there. 

The  pure  woman,  whose  instincts 
seldom  misled  her,  thought  it  well, 
on  the  whole,  since  she  desired  to 
stand  highly  with  Frank  Bathurst, 
to  devote  herself  a  good  deal  to 
her  almost  stranger  brother  this 
evening.  There  was  a  good  deal 
about  Lionel  that  was  very  interest- 
ing to  most  women.  He  was  intel- 
ligent, with  a  bright  surface  intel- 
ligence that  does  not  always — or 
often— go  with  the  deeper,  more  in- 
tense sesthetic  feeling  for  apprecia- 
tion of,  and  proficiency  in,  art  or 
literature.  Further,  he  was  good- 
looking,  fine,  well-grown,  and  grace- 
ful. There  was  no  need  for  him  to 
be  ticketted — no  woman  seen  with 
him  would  feel  called  upon  to  give 
a  hasty  explanation  respecting  him. 
She  would  rather  take  pride  in 
•waiting  and  hearing  the  speculations 
to  which  his  appearance  gave  rise, 
since  all  of  them  were  flattering. 

If  there  was  a  good  deal  that 
was  interesting  to  women  generally 
about  Mr.  Lionel  Talbot,  the  young, 
already  well-reputed  artist,  there 
was  even  more  that  was  particularly 
interesting  to  his  sister,  Mrs.  Sutton. 
She  saw  in  him  a  good,  strong, 
legitimate  stepping-stone  to  a  higher 
place  in  the  social  scale  for  herself. 
She  was  very  far  from  being  con- 
tented with  the  position  she  had 
gained.  Mark  was  utterly  useless 
for  the  purpose  of  Marian's  glorifica- 
tion. She  would  willingly  have  seen 


172 


Playing  for  High  StaJces, 


him  thrieo  as  plolx>ian  in  appear- 
ance, ami  know  him  tlirt'O  liuudred 
times  a.s  plebeian  in  mind,  to  have 
been  able  to  hanp  him  on,  wlien 
casually  mentioning  him,  to  some 
one  of  the  great  county  families.  P.ut 
she  could  not  do  so,  fertile  as  was  her 
imagination,  and  inexhaustible  as 
■were  her  expedients  for  self-aggran- 
disement. In  most  things  he  pan- 
dered to  her  weakness,  for  the  sake 
of  keeping  it  from  the  sight  of  the 
world  that  was  only  too  willing  to 
misjudge. 

But  in  this  ho  was  firm  —  ho 
•would  not  lie  himself,  or  bo  lied 
by  any  one  over  whom  ho  had  sway, 
into  the  line  of  Suttons  of  high 
degree.  '  I  am  not  much  to  boast 
of,  but,  such  as  I  am,  I'm  the  best 
and  the  first  gentleman  of  my 
family,'  he  ■would  say.  And  ■when 
he  would  say  this,  no  matter  whom 
it  was  said  before,  IMarian,  beneath 
all  her  falseness,  all  her  keen  desire 
to  seem  higher  than  she  was,  all 
her  mortification,  and  all  her  indif- 
ference—had a  feeling  of  admira- 
tion for  the  pluck  of  the  man  who 
could  avow  it  calmly,  and  not  vaunt 
himself  upon  the  daring  to  so  avow 
it.  The  speech  had  frequently 
knocked  down  some  delicate  fabric 
of  fiction  respecting  the  family  she 
had  married  into,  wliich  Mrs.  Sutton 
had  erected  with  mucli  elaboration, 
for  the  benefit  of  some  stranger.  It 
hati  made  her  wince,  and  smart, 
and  blush  over  and  over  again; 
but  it  always  made  her  like  the 
man  who  said  it  more. 

Now,  about  Lionel  her  hopes 
■were  very  high.  She  saw  that  he 
was  mailo  of  more  ductile  materials 
than  Edgar;  moreover,  he  knew 
lessalK)ut  her,  and  wa.s  more  likely, 
therefore,  to  come  under  her  influ- 
ence. If  only  ho  succeeded  bril- 
liantly, she  would  attach  herself  to, 
and  identify  herself  very  much  with 
him.  In  j)ur8uance  of  this  idea, 
she  told  him  she  was  sorry  ho 
had  established  liimsclf  with  Mr. 
Bathurst  at  Baggswattr.  '  You 
could,  have  had  a  capital  studio 
hero,  Lionel,  and  I  could  have 
peeped  in  on  you  sometimes,  without 
feelmg  tiiat  I  was  interrui)ting  Mr. 
Bathurst,'  she  urged,  in  roferenco 
to  her  proposition. 


'  You  can  do  that  now,  Marian ; 
tlie  "Battle  of  the  Bards"  doesn't 
occupy  much  of  his  time  just  at 
present;  he  has  got  an  idea  of 
another  subject  from  the  same  poem 
in  his  head— Venus  herself  luring 
Tannhauser  up  the  filial  mountain; 
so  he  is  letting  himself  lie  fallow 
until  he  can  meet  with  a  model  for 
Venus.' 

'  I  wonder  if  he  will  find  one,' 
Mrs.  Sutton  replied,  looking  round 
towards  the  man  under  discussion 
and  her  sister.  The  latter  looked 
fair  enough  to  be  a  model  for  the 
goddess  of  beauty  at  the  moment. 
The  notion  that  Frank  Bathurst 
might  think  her  so,  and  perhaps  let 
it  bo  known  that  ho  thought  so,  to 
the  overthrowing  of  Mrs.  Suttcm's 
claims  to  be  first  always,  roused  all 
the  sleeping  tigre.>s  vanity  that  was 
always  there,  even  if  couchaut,  in 
Marian's  character. 

'  I  was  looking  at  Trixy,  hoping 
she  would  do,'  she  said,  carelessly 
turning  towards  Lionel  again  ;  'she 
has  good  features — perfect,  I  sup- 
pose they  may  be  called,— and  nice 
violet  eyes ;  but  she  is  no  Venus.' 

'  Bathurst  will  not  readily  find  a 
better  typo.' 

'  It's  a  very  usual  English  type, 
however,'  Mrs.  Sutton  i)ursued.  She 
could  not  bear  that  her  own  brother 
should  admiro  her  own  sister.  'A 
very  usual  Engli.sh  type- fine  and 
fleshy,  and  wide-eyed  ;  more  a  Juno 
than  a  Venus,  isn't  she,  Mark?' 

Mr.  Sutton,  who  hail  just  come  in 
with  Edgar  Talbot,  seated  himself 
by  his  wife  before  he  answered — 

'  I  am  not  sure  that  my  ideas 
about  the  respective  goddesses  are 
very  clear:  what  is  the  question?' 

'  Mr.  r>at,hur.st  wants  a  face  to 
paint  Venus  from :  Trixy  will  not 
do?' 

*No;  but  his  cousin.  Miss  Lyon, 
will,'  Edgar  Talbot  exclaimed.  Then 
he  felt  annojed  with  him.self  for 
saying  it,  f)r  thinking  it ;  and  more 
liorril)Iy  annoyed  still  at  the  fact  of 
the  rolationsliip  rising  to  his  recol- 
lection. '  Tliat  mother  of  hers  ■will 
hara.ss  Blanche  into  marrying  the 
fellow,'  ho  thought  angrily ;  and 
then  he  determined  that  he  would 
UU  Lionel  to  keep  his  friend  away 
from  his  (Edgar's;  house  on  Trixy's 


The  DuJce's  Answer.  178 

acconnt.    '  It  will  never  do  to  give  fall    in  love  with  every    lovcablo 

him    the    freedom    of   the    place ;  earthly  creature  they  meet.'     Trixy 

Lionel  will  quite  understand  tbat,'  remembered  her  sister's  words,  as 

he  said  to  himself.     Yet  it  did  not  Mr.  Bathiirst  looked  at  her   while 

give  him  any  great  uneasiness  to  see  telling  her  some  art  story,  until  ho 

that  already  Trixy  and  Mr.  Frank  grew  confused  in  the  telling.   Trixy 

Bathurst  were  talking  a  duct,  appa-  was  not  sure  that  she  hoped   her 

rcntly  very  much  to  their  own  satis-  sister's  experience  might  be  excep- 

faction.  tional ;  but  she  was  sure  that  Frank 

'  My  experience  of  men  with  those  Bathurst's  eyes  were  of  the  most 

heavenly  blue    eyes  is,   that  they  heavenly  blue. 


THE  DUKE'S  ANSWER. 

A   MODERN  MYTH. 

•  An  answer  trips  not  ever  off  the  tongue. 
A  sign  may  speak  although  the  voice  be  mute; 
And  silence,  with  the  finger  on  the  lip. 
Hath  pointed  mauy  a  man  to  death  and  doom.' 

THE  Lady  Bertha  had  a  game  to  play. 
Though  born  of  gentle  blood,  the  maid  was  poor, 
In  all,  alas  !  that  gilds  poor  virtue's  crown. 
A  worldly  matron  aunt,  and  the  sharp  round 
Of  three  full  London  seasons,  did  their  best 
To  cultivate  her  taste  for  strawberry  leaves. 
What  flower  might  blossom,  or  what  fruit  might  set 
Within  the  coronal  that  clips  the  brow 
Was  as  a  thought  uncared-for  or  undreamed. 
By  all  save  Bertha ;  and  she  hushed  it  down 
Deep  in  the  darkness  of  her  troubled  heart. 
The  duke  was  old ;  and  youth  is  youth  ;  and  love 
Must  find  its  equal  in  all  things— or  die. 

Badly  the  Lady  Bertha  played  her  game. 
And  yet  she  won ;  as  dicers,  reckless  grown. 
Set  the  dice  reeling,  and  then  start  to  find 
The  winning  figure  uppermost  at  last 
Eefused  to  all  their  steady-measured  throws. 
The  game  was  won :  the  duke  was  at  her  feet. 

Did  triumph  move  her,  with  a  regal  air. 
To  bid  him  rise  and  take  the  conqueror's  meed  ? 
Or  did  she  dally  with  her  prize,  and  make 
Sweet  favour  sweeter  as  more  hard  to  win  ? 

Neither.    She  silent  stood  and  looked  aghast 
As  one  who  sees  the  spectre  of  her  fear 
Bather  than  living  substance  of  her  hope. 
She  reddened  upward  to  the  marble  brow 
As  though  her  purpose  flew  upon  her  face 
And  struck  her  suddenly  with  one  quick  blow 
To  shame  her  in  her  youth  and  maidenhood. 

Her  better  impulse  was  to  say  him  nay. 
Then  came  the  swift,  strong  trouble  of  the  world. 
And  all  that  world  would  say :  its  jeer — its  laugh,  . 
Its  '  Ah,  poor  thing !  she  sentimental  grew : 
You  heard— you  saw— she  jilted  the  old  duke : 


174  The  DuJcea  Answer. 

Sho  thought,  perchance,  upon  tlmt  poor  lieutenant 
"Wlio  woocJ  her  all  his  life,  from  boy  to  man; 
^Vllo,  as  he  shouM  do,  si ii)pe(r  aside  and  let 
The  rich  duko  take  his  place.     Thank  you — somo  ico : 
The  air  is  heavy  ;  hark !  the  waltz  begins.' 

The  gentle  blood  in  my  lord  duko  perceived 
The  sliadow  of  constraint  on  that  flushed  brow ; 
And  gave  her  time. 

So  she,  once  moro  alono, 
Stood  tracing  wave-like  circlets  on  tho  wall 
Tiiat  seemed  to  course  about  a  ship  at  sea, 
Till  the  room  reeled  around  her.     All  sho  felt 
Wtus  suclden  respite,  mercifully  sent 
As  unto  one  whoso  ejes  the  glimmering  axe 
Has  dazzled  like  to  a  departing  sun 
That  looks  its  last  upon  u  world  of  joy. 
'Twas  respite;  but  not  ridduuce.     All  sho  knew 
"Was  that  her  answer  would  be  looked  for  when 
Red-l)randed  autumn  burned  upon  the  woods 
And  the  strayed-berries  tangled  in  her  path,* 
And  the  wild  equinox  brought  back  to  land 
The  ship  'True  Heart.' 

At  that  her  heart  made  pause. 
And  all  her  thoughts  grew  tangled  as  the  ways 
In  moody  autumn  when  the  weeds  run  wild. 
What  was  that  ship  to  her  ? 

It  once  was  well 
Through  dull  long  nights  to  dream  about  the  ship, 
And  through  pale  visions  watch  the  tiger-leap 
Of  hungry  waves  that  broke  about  her  prow  : 
To  list  in  waking  fancy  to  the  strain 
Of  groaning  timl)ers,  as  tho  ])arted  hulk 
Let  in  grim  death  along  the  bounding  swell 
That  upward  sprang  and  rodo  the  startled  deck; 
Then  start,  and  shriek,  and  crave  for  morn  to  break 
The  shuddering  horrors  of  tho  darkened  deep. 

'Twas  other  now.    Her  end,  long-hoped,  w.is  gained. 
The  strawberry  leaves  were  straying  to  her  feet. 
A  little  twisting  of  tho  web  of  wiles,  • 

A  little  winding  of  tho  threads  of  fate, — 
•  -  And  then  the  garland  for  tho  duchess'  brow  ! 

The  golden  year  was  rounding  to  its  close 

The  curl  of  the  eternal  serpent  grew 

Almost  a  ring  of  days.     Before  tho  gale  m 

Autumn  let  fall  her  l)urthen  of  tho  boughs.  .1 

Along  the  tangled  path  tho  strayed  leaves  trailed; 

And  i)y  the  high-swelled  margin  of  tho  brook 

The  dying  season  lay  with  hair  all  loose. 

Grassing  the  waters. 

•  The  word  str^wbcny  is  fiom  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  means  (he  stray,  strewed,  or 
strawnd-berry,  so  named  liom  the  irregular  shoots  sent  (bith  by  the  plant.  The  straw- 
berry leaf,  it  scarcely  need  be  said,  is  the  oniament  of  the  ducal  coronet. 


The  Duke's  Answer.  176 

Gales  sped  back  the  ship ; 
The  ship  'True  Heart'  brought  Horace  Vernou  home. 
Nay,  more— such  sports  will  fickle  fortune  play — 
To-iiight  ho  comes ;  to-night,  too,  comes  the  duke  : 
Horace  to  end  that  broken  game  at  chess 
Left  but  half-played  the  day  he  sailed  to  sea, — 
(Bertha  had  kept  the  board  untouched  till  now !) 
The  duke  to  take  his  answer,  and  bear  home 
A  bride,  or  leave  a  heartless  jilt  in  scorn. 

The  two  were  seated  by  the  Indian  board. 
Her  white  hand  slid  an  easy  pawn  aside, 
And  captured  Horace's  chief  man  at  arms. 
He  took  reprisal  through  the  breach  thus  left. 
Seizing  her  bishop  by  the  bi-forked  crown. 
She  stood  rebuked.    'Twas  a  strange  oversight. 
Were  her  thoughts  wandering  ?     lie  was  all  himself, 
As  ripe  for  battle  as  when  rooted  fast 
Upon  the  '  True  Heart's '  deck,  'mid  battering  guns, 
He  won  that  wound  that  crippled  his  best  arm. 
She  would  do  battle,  too.     So,  now  more  'ware. 
She  (gazing  meanwhile  on  his  rest-slung  arm) 
Careered  her  knight  into  her  foe's  strong  hold. 
A  move  or  two,  and  all  the  game  seemed  hers. 
His  one  hand  seemed  to  combat  ill  'gainst  two. 
Or,  were  his  thoughts,  too,  wandering  ? — At  that 
She  paused  again,  and  fell  in  musing  mood. 

Soon,  all  the  present  melted  from  her  view. 
Save  but  the  chequered  board,  of  dark  and  light 
By  turns,  as  were  her  hopes  of  rescue  near. 
And  one  poor,  broken,  standard-bearing  pawn. 
The  silent  board  became  alive  with  dreams. 
The  serried  line  of  battle,  moving  on. 
Was  closing  round  one  small  devoted  band. 
The  captain  of  that  band— a  wounded  man — 
Lifting  his  bright  face  loyal  to  the  last. 
Held  fast  a  banner  in  his  unsmit  hand, 
And  gallantly  went  down  to  death.     His  corse 
Lay  trampled  ;  and  his  red-robed  freres 
Gave  way.     Anon,  a  black  funereal  band. 
Priest-headed,  came  and  bore  the  dead  to  dust. 
Kings  followed,  mourning ;  and  one  queenly  form 
Wearing  a  crown  upon  her  shame- flushed  brow 
Stood  bowed  above  the  red  grave  of  the  man 
Who  died  so  loveless — yet  with  love  so  near ! 

The  board  grew  dim.    Her  streaming  tears  flowed  fast. 
Betraying  all  her  heart.    She  rose,  and  turned, 
And  would  have  hid  her  anguish  from  his  sight. 
But  he  had  watched  her,  moved  as  she  was  moved. 
By  fears  of  lonely  life  and  loveless  death 
For  her  who  sat  so  silent,  facing  him 
AVith  the  wan  aspect  of  a  soul  all  lost 
That  wanders  wide  of  heaven  for  its  sins. 
Thus,  as  she  stood,  forbearing  now  no  more 
To  call  her  back  from  that  distempered  dream 
That  filled  her  eyes  with  waters  of  dismay. 
He  breathed  an  old  ancestral  name ;  a  name 


176  ITie  Duke's  Answer. 

Not  hers,  but  of  a  warrior  maid  who  l)ore 
Her  fiitlier's  crest  in  many  a  holy  war ; 
A  name  she  ever  bore  in  tlio.-c  old  days 
Of  infant  courtship,  lisped  beside  the  brook. 

The  dear  old  name !     So  childlike  sweet  of  old! 
'J'hc  martial  Ixjauty  of  it  struck  her  homo 
As  with  a  sense  of  hi.ch  and  strong  resolvo 
Hid  in  her  nature,  waiting  but  tho  call 
Of  some  true  soul  to  rouse  it  into  act. 
So,  making  one  brief  struggle  of  weak  shame 
At  thought  of  that  poor  dukedom  and  its  duke, 
She  lifted  up  her  sudden  eyes  to  his. 

An  instant  movement  drew  her  to  his  side ; 
And  to  his  shoulder  fell  her  drooping  head. 
Like  a  rath  snowdrop. 

But  the  while  she  leaned. 
Safe  as  a  plumeless  bird  in  nested  brake, 
The  air  filled  full  with  life — and  spring  come  back— 
And  all  the  winter  wandered  from  the  world, — 
Came  ushered  footsteps  up  the  soundless  stair ; 
And  in  the  open  door,  lo tho  duke ! 

What  need  we  more  ?    Tlio  better  game  was  played. 

Her  early  error  wept  for  and  atoned. 

The  Lady  Bertha  proved  a  loyal  wife. 

Her  feet,  love-guided  to  tho  nobler  path, 

Trod  firm,  and  no  more  walked  the  slipjiery  ways 

Of  worldlings.     Still  she  dreamed ;  but  dreamed  no  more 

Of  gilded  coronals.     Her  heart  has  found 

Its  rest — it  may  bo  on  a  troubled  wave 

Angels  alone  can  smooth  with  halcyon  wing. 

But  when  tho  noisy  traHic  of  the  world 

Jars  on  her  sense,  and  all  its  poor  vain  pomp 

Eolls  past  her  a.s  a  cloud,  her  soul  is  far. 

Far  on  the  great  wide  waters  with  tho  brave. 

Eleanoba  L.  Hervey. 


177 


THE  WINDING  OF  THE  SKEIN. 

THE  orchard  trees  are  white  with  snow, 
As  they  were  white  with  bloom, 
Foam- white,  and  like  a  sea  beneath 

The  window  of  the  room ; 
And  fitfully  an  April  sun 

Now  went,  now  gleam'd  again, 
But  longest  gleam 'd,  I  think,  to  see 
The  winding  of  the  skein 

We  were  two  sisters,  Maud  and  I, 

And  dwelt,  as  still  we  dwell. 
In  the  old  house  among  the  trees 

Our  mother  loved  so  well ; 
A  few  old  friends  we  had,  and  priz'd. 

Nor  others  sought  to  gain. 
But  chiefly  one  whose  name  recalls 

The  winding  of  the  skein. 

Our  artist-neighbour,  Clement,  loved 

The  orchard  like  a  boy. 
The  blossom-roof,  the  mossy  boughs 

Made  half  his  summer  joy  ; 
And  like  a  brother  in  our  hearts 

He  grew  in  time  to  reign, — 
And  this  was  he  whose  name  brings  back 

The  winding  of  the  skein. 

There  was  a  fourth  that  day.    You  guess 

The  story  ere  'tis  told : 
Our  cousin  back  from  Paris, — gay. 

Nor  coy,  nor  over-bold  ; 
But  used  to  homage,  used  to  looks, 

There  was  no  need  to  feign, 
As  Clement  found  ere  they  began 

The  winding  of  the  skein. 

I  saw  them  as  they  met,  and  read 

The  wonder  in  his  face. 
And  how  his  artist-eye  approved 

Her  beauty,  and  the  grace 
That  kindled  an  admiring  love 

His  heart  could  not  restrain. 
Though  hard  he  strove  with  it,  until 
'  The  winding  of  the  skein. 

The  idle  hours  with  idle  toil 

We  sjyed,  and  talked  between: 
With  all  her  skill  our  cousin  wrought 

A  'broider'd  banner  screen : 
And  so  it  chanc'd  that  Clement's  aid 

She  was  so  glad  to  gain. 
And  he — could  he  refuse  to  help 

The  winding  of  the  skein  ? 

Eing  after  ring  the  golden  floss 

About  his  fingers  roU'd : 
He  thought — '  Her  hair  is  brighter  yet, 

It  has  the  truer  gold.' 

VOL.  XI.— NO.   LXII.  N 


178  Skelchet  of  the  Englith  Bench  and  Bar, 

I  read  this  in  his  eyes,  that  strove 

To  turn  from  her  in  vain. 
And  loath'd  my  raven  tresses  throngb 

The  winding  of  the  fkein. 

Eound  after  round  they  wound  before 

The  task  was  wholly  done, 
And  if  their  finpers  touched,  the  blood 

Straight  to  his  cheek  would  run ; 
And  if  the  knotted  silk  she  chid 

Her  voice  through  every  vein 
"Went  with  a  thrill  of  joy,  througlio;;t 

The  winding  of  the  skein. 

Eound  after  round,  until  the  end. 

And  when  the  end  was  there 
He  knew  it  not,  but  sat  with  hands 

Rais'd  in  the  empty  air  : 
The  ringing  of  tie  merry  laugh 

Startled  his  dreaming  brain, 
And  then  he  knew  his  heart  ensnar'd 

In  winding  of  the  skein. 

Beneath  the  apple-blooms  that  day. 

And  many  a  day  they  strayed : 
I  saw  them  through  a  mist  of  tears, 

While  hard  for  death  I  prayed. 
And  still  those  blossoms  like  these  sn  ivrs 

Benumb  my  heart  with  pain, 
And  Mand  knows  well  when  I  recall 

The  winding  of  the  skein, 

W.  S. 


SKETCHES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  BENCH  AND  BAR. 


n. 

Hartj  ZJJcstburn  antf  tfjc  Intc  EorH  3"^ttcc  Bnig^jt  $ruce. 

IORD     WESTBL'RY'S    portrait  You  might  perhaps  as.=:ociate  with 

J   illustrates    at  once  the   truth  that  calm  countenance  the  idea  of 

and   the    fallacy  of   physiognomy,  conscious     intellect    and   superior 

His  countenance  indicates  his  real,  power ;  you  might  imagine  it  united 

original  nature,  and  so,  in  a  certain  with  a    bland,    half-compassionate 

sense,  his  character,  but  does  not  bearing    towards  others;   but  you 

give  yon  an  idea  of  his  habitual  na-  would  not  suppose  that  it  covered, 

ture  and   his    ac'iuired    character,  but  scarce  concealed,  the  most  ku- 

ProbaVily    there     has    never    been  percilious  contempt  of  all,  however 

known  a  man  of  gre-ater  eminence  elevated,  except  himself.   You  might 

and  more  enemies.     You  would  not  fancy  that  those  lips  i-poke  calmly, 

think  so,  looking  at  his  portrait,  or  perhaps  softly,  but  you  could  not 

gazing  on  his   countenance;  it  all  suppose   that  they   lisped  forth   in 

seems  so  placid,  so  Unignant,  and  such   soft  voice  accents  of  almost 

BO  benevolent,  you  would  \ni  willing  genuine  sweetness;  and  ka.st  of  all 

to  believe  him  when  he  a'i.'^ured  J ou  would  you  realize  that    the  words 

— as  he  is  fond  of  saying— with  his  they    li.«ped    were    almost    always 

peculiar  calm,  soft,   lisping  utter-  words  of  the  most  contemptuous  or 

ance,  that  '  l>enevoIencc  is  the  dis-  compassionate  scorn. 

tinguishing  feature  of  his  character.'  Yet  the  featiues  do  not   speak 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  /!<ir. 


179 


falsely,  and  the  countenanco,  after 
all,  does  not  falsify  iDhysiognomy. 
They  portray  the  man's  original 
nature,  the  rest  is  his  acquired  cha- 
racter. The  key  to  the  puzzle  is 
that  Sir  R.  Bethell  affected  a  charac- 
ter very  different  from  his  real  na- 
ture. He  has  always  assumed  a  far 
greater  degree  of  scorn  than  he  felt, 
though  that  was  great  enough,  no 
doubt.  He  assumed  an  air  of  cahu 
disdain,  and  it  became  habitual  to 
him ;  he  affected  a  calm,  scornful 
utterance  and  manner,  and  it  has 
become  a  second  nature.  And  thus 
he  acquired  by  degrees  a  sort  of 
second  character  wliich  is  not  na- 
tural, except  so  far  as  it  no  doubt 
is  the  growth  of  the  pride  of  his 
nature,  A  single  anecdote  of  him 
reveals  this.  There  was  an  old 
chancery  barrister  with  whom  he 
used  to  contend,  and  of  whom  he 
used  to  speak  with  thrilling  con- 
tempt. '  That  fellow,'  he  lisped  out, 
'  lost  me  a  thousand  a  year  with  his 
infernal  prolixity  and  incurable  dul- 
ness.'  Yet  no  sooner  was  Le  Chan- 
cellor than  he  presented  the  son  of 
his  old  professional  rival  with  a 
good  place.  Now  there  is  the  man 
in  his  double  nature,  his  acquired 
habits  of  affected  contempt  spring- 
ing from  his  intellectual  pride,  and 
his  acts  of  real  goodness  springing 
from  his  natural  kindlines^s.  And 
he  is  a  man  to  stand  by  his  friends : 
a  fine  feature  in  a  mans  character. 
Beyond  all  doubt.  Lord  Westbury 
has  that  to  be  said  in  his  favour, 
that  he  is  a  stanch  friend,  and 
never  shrank  from  doing  his  best 
for  any  one  who  had  served  him. 
In  this,  perhaps,  he  is  better  than 
better  men.  But  it  illustrates  his 
mixed  character.  There  probably 
never  was  a  man  ia  whose  charac- 
ter were  mixed  up  such  diverse 
elements  natural  and  acquired. 
Hence  the  result — there  never  was 
a  man  more  disliked  or  more  be- 
loved. And,  paradoxical  as  it  may 
appear,  there  really  is  some  truth 
in  his  own  idea  of  himself — the  ex- 
chancellor  is  not  a  bad  fellow.  He 
will  do  kind  things,  but  he  never 
could  resist  the  temptation  nf  say- 
ing unkind  things.  His  second 
nature  is  scorn  of  other  men,  and 
his  luxury  is  sarcasm.    The  secret 


of  the  dislike  entertained  for  him  ia 
what  perhaps  an  acute  physiogno- 
mist miglit  detect  even  in  those 
bland,  calm  features— an  overween- 
ing, egotistical  confidence  in  his 
own  superior  intellect,  and  a  pro- 
found scorn  and  contempt  for  other 
men.  Coupled  with  the  feeling 
arising  from  it  is  a  great  talent  for 
sarcasm  and  an  immense  alacrity  in 
its  exercise,  which  of  course  is  only 
another  word  for  making  enemies. 
Taking  these  elements  of  character 
into  consideration,  and  looking  again 
carefully  at  that  tine  countenance, 
possibly  our  readers  may  imagine 
him  as  Lord  Derby  graphically  de- 
scribed him,  as  '  standing  up  and 
for  upwards  of  an  hour  pouring 
upon  the  head  of  a  political  oppo- 
nent a  continuous  stream  of  vitriolic 
acid.'  Nothing  less  forcible  than 
tliat  remarkable  expression  could 
describe  the  biting,  scorching  sar- 
casm of  the  ex-chancellor.  So  he 
was  when  Sir  Richard  Bethell ;  and 
it  is  believed  that  there  never  was  a 
man  in  the  profession  of  whom  so 
many  pungent,  sarcastic  witticisms 
were  reported.  It  is  difticult  to 
convey  an  idea  of  their  effect  as 
they  were  uttered  in  that  calm, 
sweet,  lisping  voice,  with  such  slow- 
ness of  utterance  and  such  liland- 
ness  of  countenance,  with  such  an 
amusing  contrast  bet  ween  the  honied 
accents  and  the  biting  words.  When 
the  late  Lord  -  Chancellor  (Lord 
Cran worth)  was  Vice-Chancel  lor. 
Sir  Richard  spoke  of  him  as  '  that 
respectable  old  woman ;'  and  once, 
when  the  Yice-Chancellor  said  he 
would  '  turn  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind,'  Sir  Richard  turned  round  to 
his  junior,  and  with  his  usual  bland, 
calm  utterance  said,  '  Take  a  note 
of  that;  his  Honour  says  he  will 
turn  it  over  in  what  he  is  pleastd  to 
call  his  mind.'  So  when  some  one 
said  of  an  attorney -general  for  whom 
he  had  a  contempt,  that  it  was  a 
shame  to  put  any  one  over  his  head. 
Sir  Richard  said,  in  the  same  calm, 
lisping  accents, '  //t«'i,  did  you  say  ? 
Has  he  a  head?'  The  exquisite 
effect  of  these  sarcasms  was  so  much 
the  result  of  utterance  that  they 
could  only  be  fully  appreciated  by 
those  who  heard  them ;  but  by  at- 
tentively studying  the  features  of 

N  2 


180 


Shetchcs  of  tlte  Etujlinh  Bench  mn}  Bar. 


the  iiortrait,  and  imagining  a  pecu- 
liarly soft,  swtct,  calm  voico,  utter- 
ing tlieso  stinging  sayings,  poiue 
icL-a  may  ho  fornu'il  of  their  cfFtct 
on  the  iklighteil  hearers.  Heing 
asked  how  he  was  getting  on  in  an 
appeal  Uforo  an  arohhi.shop,  and 
his  assessor,  a  learned  doctor,  he 
frnid,  'Getting  on,  did  you  say? 
How  is  it  possihlo  to  get  on  before 
tiri)  sillij  oJil  m>)i  who  undetstand 
nothing  whatever  of  the  matter?' 
Arguing  a  case  in  error  before  the 
judges,  one  of  them,  for  whom  ho 
had  a  dislike,  asked  him  a  question 
which  somewhat  pinched  him,  upon 
which  he  blandly  replied,  in  his 
Bweetest,  softest  accents,  '  Ikfore  I 
answer  the  question,  may  I  venture 
to  entreat  your  lordship  to  recon- 
sider it,  for  I  am  sure  upon  consi- 
deration you  will  perceive  that  it 
involves  a  sclf-iviiUnt  ahsunlihj.' 
It  may  seem  scarcely  credible  that 
such  tilings  have  been  said ;  but 
such  was  the  sweetness,  cahimesa, 
and  softness  of  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  said,  that,  somehow,  they 
passed  by  before  those  to  whom 
they  were  addressed  had  received 
the  shock  of  surprise,  especially  as 
the  sting  was  always  at  the  end,  and 
Sir  Iiichard  went  on  with  his  argu- 
ment as  calm  and  unruflled  ixs  if  he 
liad  just  paid  a  happy  compliment. 
It  was  the  sublime  of  iu.solence:  it 
was  insolence  sublimated  almost  to 
grandeur. 

For  his  professional  opponents 
and  rivals  ho  had  an  unbounded 
contempt;  for  all  but  one,  that 
was  Iilr.  Iiolt,  who,  indeed,  was 
the  only  one  who  was  a  match  for 
him.  Yet  even  to  him  he  would 
assume  his  habitual  nir  of  calm  supe- 
riority. '  So  much  '  ho  said  once 
when  rei)lying  to  hira — 'so  much 
for  my  kaiued  friend's  first  argu- 
ment! lint,  my  h  rds,  as  the  paths 
ol  error  are  iiumi nms,  and  devious, 
my  learned  friend  has  another  argu- 
ment, to  which  I  will  now  advert.' 
Imagine  this,  sjiokcn  slowly,  loftily, 
sweetly,  lispingly!  It  was  impos- 
silile  to  help  smiling;  an<l  even  .Mr. 
Holt,  who  is  gOfKl-hiuuouud  and 
sensible,  enjoyed  it ;  and  the  judges 
laughed,  i'.ut  Sir  Rich  ird  went  on, 
loftdy  and  lispingly,  with  that  un- 
appri.acliabl'j  air  of  superiority,  in 


which  no  man  at  the  I5ar  or  on  the 
l^ineh,  in  living  memory,  ever  ro- 
semliled  him.  It  was  a  peculiar 
feature  of  Sir  Richard  Ikthell's 
character  that  his  sc(jrn  was  too 
lofty  to  have  anything  in  it  of  a 
cunning  or  spite.  It  was  lofty  and 
overlniiring,  but  there  was  nothing 
in  it  either  of  littleness  or  bitterness. 
Sir  Richard's  sarcasms  were  rather 
scornful  than  spiteful,  and  hadoft^n 
more  of  wit  than  bitterness.  You 
saw  that  his  object  was  rather  to 
display  his  air  of  sui)eriority  and 
gratify  his  pride,  than  to  give  pain 
or  wreak  revenge.  Ho  was  too  proud 
for  small  resentments,  and  had  too 
constant  a  sense  of  his  own  supe- 
riority to  condescend  to  wrancrle  or 
to  quarrel.  He  could  not,  for  the 
world,  have  so  compromised  his 
dignity;  and  this  dignity  of  tone 
and  manner  ho  never  lost  even  while 
at  the  Bar. 

This  happy  gift  of  dignity,  with 
its  alloy  of  sarcasm  and  scorn,  ho 
carried  with  him  to  the  Woolsack 
and  the  ILmse  of  Lords ;  and  he 
quickly  made  every  lord  there  of 
any  mark  or  eminence,  his  foe— at 
least  among  the  law  lords,  with 
•whom  he  came,  of  conr.«e,  more 
constantly  in  contest.  His  animo- 
sity to  Lord  Chelmsford — his  con- 
tempt fot  Lord  Cranworth  —  his 
scorn  for  Lord  Wensley<lale  — all 
Were  uidiounded,  and  could  only  bo 
conveyed  by  his  wonderful  power 
of  sarcasm.  And,  above  all,  he 
loved  to  show  his  contiunpt  for  the 
Common  Law  Judges,  uj)on  appeals. 
Reading  a  sentence  from  one  of  their 
judgments,  he  said  to  counsel,  who 
attended  to  support  it — '  Pray,  Mr. 
So-and-So,  upon  which  of  these  pro- 
positions do  you  intend  to  rely? 
for  you  must  perceive  that  they  aro 
iitterly  inconsistent.'  His  power 
of  exciting  enmity  was  unrivalled, 
and  he  revelled  in  it.  Ho  could 
throw  into  a  few  bland  words, 
spoken  in  the  calmest  tone,  a  bitter- 
ness of  sarcasm  which  would  make 
a  man  his  enemy  for  life.  Ho  was 
an  embodiment  of  intelli-ctual  ])rido. 
He  liad  the  most  unlxninded  conti- 
d(;nco  in  his  superiority  to  other 
men,  even  the  very  highest  in  his 
own  profession,  and  loved  to  show 
liis  sense  of  it  by  the  most  intense 


Sketches  of  the  Emjlisli  Bcnvli.  and  Bar. 


181 


and  impassioned  scorn  for  them. 
Perhaps  you  might  not  have  found 
it  out  from  his  i'eaturos,  but,  being 
aware  of  it,  possibly  -  turniuu;  to  liis 
portrait— you  may  fancy  that  you 
can  read  it  there.  At  all  events,  if 
you  ever  saw  and  heard  him— only 
for  a  moment — tlicre  could  be  no 
mistake  about  it.  The  first  words 
he  uttered  would  suliice  to  give  the 
impression,  at  once,  of  superior  in- 
tellect and  of  unmeasurable  pride. 
The  spirit  of  scorn  and  sarcasm 
seems  native  to  his  breast,  and  to 
breathe  in  every  tone  of  his  voice, 
which  even  afi'ects  more  scorn  than 
he  feels.  How  unlike  Sir  Alexander 
Cockburn— easy,  natural, and  genial: 
whose  voice  rings  out  in  bright  and 
lively  tones  of  good-heartedness ! 

There  could  not  be  a  greater  con- 
trast than  the  portraits  and  the 
characters  of  these  two  eminent  men 
present;  yet  they  were  for  many 
years  associated  together.  They  were 
law  officers  of  the  crown  at  the  same 
time;  tliey  were  Benchers  of  tlie 
same  Inn ;  and  Sir  Alexander  will 
tell  a  good  story,  how  Sir  Eichard 
once  said  to  him,  in  a  tone  of  inde- 
scribable compassion,  '  My  dear 
fellow,  equity  will  swallow  up  your 
common  law.'  '  I  don't  know  about 
that,' said  Sir  Alexander,  '  but  you'll 
find  it  rather  hard  of  digestion !'  The 
remark  and  the  repartee  very  well 
convey  the  characteristics  of  the 
two  men, — the  one  all  supercilious 
pride  and  scorn,  the  other  of  a 
quick,  lively,  generous  spirit. 

With  Lord  Westbury  may  very 
fitly  be  associated  the  late  Lord 
Justice  Knight  Bruce.  Alas!  we 
have  lost  him ! 

Lord  Jnstice  Knight  Bruce  had 
been  nearly  twenty  years  on  the 
Bench ;  and  as  he  left  the  Bar  be- 
fore Sir  E.  Bethell  became  great 
there,  they  did  not  have  any  rivalry 
as  advocates.  But  they  came  fear- 
fully into  collision  when  Sir  Eichard 
had  become  great,  and  came  before 
the  Lord  Justice  as  an  advocate. 
The  Lord  Justice,  as  a  veteran  and 
venerable  lawyer,  deeply  versed  in 
the  principles  of  equity,  could  not 
brook  the  overbearing  tone  of  Sir 
Eichard,  and  the  profound  scorn 
with  which  he  always  spoke  of 
views  opposed  to  his  own.     And  as 


they  almost  equally  excelled  in  the 
fatal  gift  of  sarcasm,  it  may  be 
imagined  what  scenes  ensuerl. 

The  Lord  Justice  was  a  man  of 
greater  depth  than  Sir  Eichard, 
though  not  of  such  brilliant  ability  ; 
and  yoix  could  see,  from  his  features, 
that  ho  was  a  man  of  deep  thought 
and  reflective  mood.  You  would 
not  guess,  however,  that  he  had  a 
vein  of  dry,  grave  humour,  which 
he  delighted  in  displaj  ing ;  and  this 
was  one  of  the  traits  whicli  excited 
Sir  Eichard's  scorn.  It  marked  the 
distinction  between  the  two  men 
that  though  the  Lord  Justice  was 
often  sarcastic,  Sir  Eichard  was 
never  humorous.  And  though  the 
wit  of  the  Lord  Justice  per- 
haps was  sarcastic,  it  was  rarely 
ever  so  severe,  so  scorching  as  Sir 
Eichard's.  There  was  always  a 
touch  of  humour  about  it,  and  a 
tone  of  good-humour,  quite  distin- 
guishing it  from  the  great  advo- 
cate's. The  Lord  Justice  had  a 
grave,  solid,  old-fashioned,  emphatic 
way  of  speaking,  which  very  much 
enhanced  the  effect  of  his  wit,  or 
humour;  and  the  difference  was, 
that  he  delighted  in  displaying  his 
wit,  while  Sir  Eichard  delighted  in 
uttering  sarcasms.  The  Lord  Jus- 
tice had,  indeed,  a  kind  of  grave 
judicial  waggery  about  him  exceed- 
ingly droll.  He  has  been  known  to 
deliver  a  whole  judgment  in  the 
gravest  tone  possible — but  one  piece 
of  solemn  waggery  from  beginning 
to  end.  Such  was  his  judgment  in 
the  case  of  a  suit  between  an  attor- 
ney and  his  wife,  about  a  separation 
deed,  the  dispute  having  arisen  upon 
the  disposition  of  her  separate  pro- 
perty. '  The  court,'  commenced 
the  Lord  Justice,  'has  been  now  for 
several  days  occupied  in  the  matri- 
monial quarrels  of  a  solicitor  and 
his  wife.  He  was  a  man  not  unac- 
customed to  the  ways  of  the  softer 
sex,  for  ho  already  had  nine  chil- 
dren, by  three  successive  wives. 
She,  however — herself  a  widow — 
was  well  informed  of  all  these  ante- 
cedents; and,  it  appears,  did  not 
consider  them  any  oly'ection  to  their 
union :  and  they  were  married.  No 
sooner  were  they  united,  however, 
than  they  were,  unhappily,  dis- 
united by  unhappy  disputes  as  to 


182 


Skrtrhes  of  the  English  Bench  niul  B  tr. 


licr  property.  These  disputes  dis- 
turKd  even  the  period  usual ly  do- 
dirated  to  tlio  soft  di-liglits  of 
matrimony,  niul  tho  lionoymoon 
was  occupied  by  endeavours  to  in- 
duce lier  to  (■xerci>e  a  t(  stauicntnry 
power  of  npiiointmtnt  in  his  fnvour. 
She,  however,  refused,  aijd  so  we 
find  tliat,  iti  dne  course,  at  tli« 
end  of  tlio  niontl),  lio  hrouglit 
home,  with  some  disgust,  his  still 
intesfate  l>rido.  The  disputes  con- 
tinued ;  until  at  last  they  ex- 
chanped  the  irregular  quarrels  of 
domestic  strife  for  the  more  disci- 
plined warfare  of  Lincoln's  Inn  and 
Doctors' Commons  '  And  so  on,  in 
the  same  vein  of  irony,  to  the  end. 
So,  in  another  celebrated  judgment 
of  his,  alx)ut  the  '  Apapenionc,' 
which  he  held  up  to  ridicule  and 
scorn.  So  in  a  ca-so  as  to  the  con- 
struction of  a  will.  After  counsel  had 
lieen  hard  at  work  all  day  contend- 
ing for  difT.rcrit  meanings,  tlie 
Lord  Chief  .Justice  thus,  with  the 
utmost  solenmity,  coinmonecd  liis 
judgment—'  If,'  he  said,  'the  sj)irit3 
of  the  dej^irted  are  ever  j)er- 
mitted  to  lie  conscious  of  thimzs 
whicli  take  place  liere  beIo>v,  and  if 
the  spirit  of  tho  testator  has  been 
cognizant  of  the  di.scu.ssion  whieh 
has  l)een  going  on  here  to-<lay,  ho 
must  have  been,  no  doubt,  consiiler- 
ubly  astoni.-hed — ptrliaps  I  might 
say  disgusted -at  ho  intentions 
which  liavo  been  ascribed  to  him, 
and  the  various  meanings  wluVh 
iiavo  been  put  upon  his  words. 
Nevertheless,  wo  miist  presume 
that  lie  intended  what,  as  lawyer.s, 
wo  make  his  words  to  mean— no 
matter  whether  he  meant  it  or  not.' 
All  thi-j,  mind,  in  the  most  solemn 
and  sentient,  easy  tone,  and  with  a 
peculiarly  oracular  air,  which  im- 
nietisely  enhanred  the  effect  of  this 
judicial  waggery.  It  is  impossible 
to  conceive  a  gr<attr  jjower  of 
grave  aiid  iionical  ridicule  than  was 
pos.-esse  I  by  the  Lo?d  Just  ce  ;  and 
there  are  few  judgments  of  Ids 
which  are  not  reliived  by  the  intro- 
duction of  some  play  of  humour  or 
wjrao  stroke  of  wit.  His  was  a  uiit)d 
whii-h  giaily  relieved  the  tension  of 
severe  and  continuous  thonglit  by 
such  ^allit8  of  wit  and  humour. 
There  was  nothing  iU-iiutured  in  bis 


character ;  and  though  ho  was  so 
fond  of  it  that  he  would  not  abstain 
merely  lest  it  should  give  pain,  he 
did  not  practise  it  at  all,  for  tiio 
siko  of  giving  pain.  It  was 
simply  his  diversion,  his  dcli^iht, 
his  enjoyment  to  l)e  witty  when- 
ever he  could.  If  to  bo  witty  he 
must  bo  .sarcastic,  why  he  would  be 
so;  but  his  object  was  only  to  bo 
witty.  He  had  a  little  harmless 
vanity  to  be  thought  witty;  ami 
being  a  man  of  a  long  and  enlarged 
txperieiu'e,  and  of  a  di  ep,  cultivated, 
and  rellective  mind,  he  was  never 
trivial,  though  i)la\f(d  in  his  wit, 
and  never  vulgar  tho\igh  familiar  in 
his  pleasantries.  He  was  pedantic 
in  his  tone,  with  a  grave,  formal, 
emphatic,  measured  way  of  speak- 
ing, more  reseml)ling  the  late  Lord 
Chief  Barons  than  any  other  judge; 
and  -  like  him— belonging  to  an  old 
school,  now  passing  away. 

The  twenty  years'  difference  in 
the  professional  life  of  the  Lord 
Justice  and  the  late  Lord  Chancellor 
mark,  indeed,  very  well  the  boundary 
l)fctween  the  past  and  tho  j)resent 
race  of  advocates.  Tho  Lord  Jus- 
tiee  belongs  to  the  age  of  Sir  Thomas 
Wilde,  and  Sir  Widiam  Follett,  and 
Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  and  Sir  V. 
Thesiger,  and  Sir  F.  Kelly,  all  of 
whom  have  now  left  the  liar;  and 
the  last  of  whom  are,  one  l)y  one, 
leaving  the  Bench.  Long  may  they 
linger  there,  for  they  represent  a 
school  of  greater  depth  of  leirning 
and  breadth  of  mind  than  tlio 
pre.sent,  for  the  most  part,  are: 
and  tho  distinction  is  well  illus- 
trated by  tho  difference  between 
the  thoughtful,  well->tored  mind 
of  the  Lord  Justice  and  the  more 
brilliant  and  showy  abilities  of  tho 
late  Lord  Clancellor. 

The  judgment  of  Lord  Justice 
Ktiight  Bruce  in  tho  case  of  tho 
'  Agapeiuiuie'  was,  bejond  all  doubt, 
the  ricliest  si)e(imen  of  judicial 
irony  ever  uttered,  lleadii  g  a  few 
pashages  of  it,  and  thtii  looking  at 
tlio  portrait  of  the  Lord  Justice, 
the  reider  will,  on  tho  one  hand, 
g»t  inlimtely  more  of  the  relish  and 
enjoyment  of  it;  and  on  the  other 
hand  get  a  truer  idea  of  tho 
judicial  (iliaracter  of  the  Lord  Ju.s- 
tico  than  he  pohsibly  could  denvo 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


183 


either  from  the  portrait  or  the 
perusal.  The  reader  should  bear 
in  mind  that  the  Lord  Justice  was 
eminently  grave,  slow,  solemn,  pre- 
cise, and  gententious  in  his  utter- 
ance, and  this  immensely  enhanced 
the  '  humour  '  of  the  thing. 

It  was  an  application,  it  should 
be  observed,  on  the  part  of  an  infant, 
that  a  proper  guardian  should  be 
appointed,  and  that  his  father 
should  be  restrained  from  taking 
possession  of  him.  In  the  gravest 
and  most  sententious  tone,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  deepest  irony,  he 
spoke  thus: — 

'  His  parents  are  both  living ; 
one  of  them,  his  father,  a  native,  as 
I  collect,  of  Wales,  having  been 
educated  with  a  view  to  become  a 
minister  of  the  Church  of  England. 
I  do  not,  however,  collect  that  he 
proceeded  beyond  deacon's  orders, 
or  that  he  now  considers  himself 
to  be  a  member  of  that  church; 
nor  does  it  appear  that  he  has  any 
present  or  prospective  preferment, 
ofiBce,  employment,  business,  for- 
tune, means,  or  source  of  income 
whatever.'  (There  was  a  world  of 
judicial  irony,  of  grave,  solemn 
waggery  in  this  careful,  precise  enu- 
meration and  exclusion  of  every 
conceivable  source  of  income.) 
'  The  wife,  the  petitioner's  mother, 
is  one  of  the  daughters  of  a  gen- 
tleman of  good  fortune,  a  lady  in 
good  circumstances,  and  a  person 
of  respectability,  with  a  portion  of 
some  thousands  of  pounds ;  the 
marriage,  whether  equal  or  unequal 
otherwise,  seems,  in  that  respect  at 
least,  to  have  been  unequal,  for  the 
husband  had  not,  I  believe,  any  pro- 
perty. It  took  place  without  the 
consent  of  the  mother,  and  it  seems, 
in  a  considerable  degree,  ascribable 
to  the  influence  and  ascendency  over 
her  mind  which  must,  I  fear,  be  said 
unhappily  for  her,  to  have  been  ac- 
quired and  exercised  by  a  fanatic 
or  a  pseudo-fanatic  preacher,  who 
styled  himself  the  servant  of  the 
Lord ;  who  seems  to  have  acted 
less  as  a  "  go-between  "  than  as  a 
spiritual  director  in  forming  this 
and  other  matches  between  endowed 
ladies,  and  such  of  his  followers  or 
associates  of  the  other  sex  as  were 
judged  fit  for  his  purpose.    One  of 


these  was  the  person  (the  petitioner's 

father),  whom   Miss  Agnes   N 

seems  to  have  been  led  to  believe 
it  was  the  will  of  God  to  reveal, 
through  the  servant  of  the  Lord, 
that  she  should  marry,  and  whom 
she  did  so  marry  very  much  on 
that  ground.  She  married  without 
a  settlement:  her  fortune,  conse- 
quently, came  into  his  power.  The 
want  of  a  settlement  was,  however, 
not  through  oversight:  she  men- 
tioned the  subject  to  him  it  appears, 
at  the  same  time  mentioning  a  pro- 
mise, probably  connected  with  it, 
which  she  had  made  to  her  parents. 
It  appears  that  not  quite  three 
weeks  before  the  marriage  he  was 
moved,  and  permitted  himself,  to 
write  to  her,  this  all  but  impossible 
letter.'  Then  the  Lord  Justice  pro- 
ceeded to  read  the  '  all  but  impos- 
sible letter'  in  tones  of  irony  which 
made  it  for  those  who  he'ard  it  a 
treat  they  will  never  forget.  It  ran 
thus : — 

'  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled 
under  your  present  circumstances, 
neither  let  it  be  afraid  at  what 
friends  or  foes  may  suggest.  Abide 
in  the  Spirit  and  will  of  God,  and 
then  will  your  peace  be  like  a  river, 
wide  and  overflowing,  and  your 
soul  will  be  borne  sweetly  along  the 
stream  of  time  until  it  reaches  the 
ocean  of  eternal  rest  and  quiet. 
"What  I  say  unto  you  I  say  also 
unto  Harriet  and  Clara'  (her  sisters). 
'  Assure  them  of  my  love,  and  let 
them  trust  themselves  to  be  carried 
by  faith,  &c.  My  beloved  Agnes,  I 
must  write  to  you  just  what  the 
Spirit  leads  me  to  do.  This  I  do 
with  the  more  confidence,  because 
I  believe  you  have  an  ear  to  what 
the  Lord  may  say  unto  you  through 
him  that  loveth  you.  You  mention 
your  desire  to  have  a  settlement 
of  your  property  upon  yourself. 
This,  I  assure  you,  would  be  very 
agreeable  to  my  own  feelings,  and 
is  so  still ;  but  last  evening  waiting 
on  God  this  matter  came  quite  un- 
expectedly before  me.  I  had  en- 
tirely put  it  away  from  my  thoughts, 
leaving  it  to  take  its  course  as  you 
might  be  led  to  act ;  but  God  will 
not  have  it  so.  He  shows  me 
that  the  principle  is  entirely  con- 
trary to  God's  word,  and  altogether 


184 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bcnofi  and  Bar. 


LOUD  WESTBURY. 


Sketches  of  tJie  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


185 


THE  LATE  LORD  JUSTICE  KNIGHT  BRUCE. 


186 


Ski'Ichr*  of  the  Eii'jHsh  Bench  and  Bar. 


at  variance  Tvith  that  confidcnco 
which  is  to  exist  between  iis,  who 
are  of  one  spirit.  Tliis  desiro  on 
your  i)art  must  he  nbaiidoned  ;  give 
it  up  to  God,  and  sliow  that  you 
can  trust  lu's  faiiiifulnevss,  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  confidence  you 
repose  in  hiai  will  not  bo  disap- 
pointed. As  repards  the  proniiso 
you  made  to  your  parents,  any 
promise  made  when  you  were  un- 
converted, and  whicli  was  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  word  of  God,  you 
are  not  to  abide  by ;  neither  would 
it  Ixi  ripht  in  you  to  adhere  to  it. 

'I  must  bid  you  farewell,  and  be- 
lieve me  to  abide  in  much  love, 

'  Yours  affectionately  in  the 
'  everlasting  covenant, 
'  BiioTiiER  Thomas. 

*  The  testimony  of  Jesus  will  bo 
proclaimed  in  "  Adullam  "  on  Sun- 
day.' 

After  reading  this  'all  but  im- 
possible letter,'  the  Lord  Justice 
proceeded : 

'  Even  this  unparalleled  perform- 
ance failed  to  open  the  lady's  eyes, 
and,  her  marriage  taking  place,  she 
became  annexed,  and  an  addition  to 
the  school,  or  suite,  of  "  the  servant 
of  the  Lord."  The  bride  and  bride- 
groom visited  various  places  from 
the  time  of  their  nmrriagc  for  more 
than  half  a  year.  During  the  latter 
part  of  that  time  they  were  at  Wey- 
mouth, and  lodged  at  a  hou.sc  where 
"the  servant  of  the  Lord"  was  also 
living;  and  here  the  lady  appears  to 
have  received  from  her  husband, 
and  not  from  him  alone,  treatment 
of  a  coarse,  harsh,  and  unmanly 
description.  In  January,  1846," the 
serviint  of  the  Lord"  and  some  of 
his  followers  and  a.ssociates  went,  I 
believe,  professionally  to  Bridge- 
water,  leaving  the  lady  and  her 
husband  l)ohind.  Some  of  these, 
including  the  hu.sband,  but  not  his 
wife,  were  soon,  it  seems,  sent  for. 
The  fiummons— which  profcs.scd,  I 
believe,  to  l)c  a  call  to  attend  a 
spiritual  tea-party — was  obeyed,  and 
ho  went,  leaving  liis  wife  behind 
him.  The  husband  sent  for  his 
clothes,  and  then,  having  received 
them,  he  despatched  to  his  wife  this 
indescribable  communication : — 

"  My  EK8T  Beloved, — I  herewith 
enclose  you  a  small  portion :   eat. 


drink,  yea,  drink  abundantly;  and 
let  your  soul  delight  in  i'atne.ss;  let 
the  will  of  God  bo  your  hoinc  and 
resting-place.  '  The  servant  f)f  the 
Lord '  told  mc  that  you  would  not 
be  in  your  jirescnt  stnte  unless  you 
had  rebelled  months  ago,  and  thus 
you  will  sutler  for  it  in  not  being 
able  to  go  about  with  mc  as  you 
otherwise  would ;  but  when  I  see 
you  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it;  for 
the  prcs3iit  abide  quietly  where  you 
are,  and  go  on  as  if  I  were  with  you. 
"We  are  separated,  but  we  are  not 
severed,  and  I  abide,  dearest,  the 
same  your  unchanging  and  affec- 
tionate Brotiieh  Thomas." 

*  When,'  continued  the  Lord  Jus- 
tice, 'it  is  known  that  the  writer  of 
this  letter  did  not  return,  but  that 
liis  departure  from  her  was  the 
commencement  of  a  total  sej)aration, 
such  a  composition  may  seem  to  bo 
in  the  last  degree  perplexing.'  Then 
after  commenting  ujjou  the  deser- 
tion in  terms  in  which  indignation 
absorbed  irony,  the  Lord  Justice 
resumed  his  tone  of  irony.  '  Such 
a  cour.se  of  conduct  seems  inexi)l i ca- 
ble, except  on  the  supposition  that 
the  influence  and  ascendancy  of  the 
per.';on  calHng  himself  "  the  servant 
of  the  Lord"  had  been  exerted,  and 
prevailed  over  "  I5rother  Thomas," 
as  strangely  as  they  had  at  one 
time  over  his  wife.  I  collect  that 
after  the  marriage  she  exhibited 
syraptom.s  of  insubordination,  not 
towards  licr  hu.sband,  but  towards 
"  the  .servant  of  the  liOrd  ;"  attempted 
to  shako  her  husi)and's  allegiance  to 
him,  and  was  found  out.  However, 
upon  these,  or  no  more  just  grounds, 
"  the  servant  of  the  Lord  "  took  a 
di.slikc  to  the  lady  after  the  marriage, 
and  did  mainly,  if  not  solely,  iiiHu- 
cnco  her  husband's  mind  in  his  ill- 
treatment  and  desertion  of  her.  Nor 
ought  it  ])robably  to  Ix;  ascribed  to 
his  own  s])ontaneous  feelings  that 
he  wrote  to  her  theco:irse  and  shame- 
ful letter  dated  the  "  Agapemono," ' 
which  the  Lord  Justice  jiroceeded 
to  read,  and  which  had  this  j)as.sage 
and  others  similar:  '1  write  merely 
to  inform  you  of  my  determination 
concerning  you :  (iod  is  ])nro  and 
holy — I  am  His  and  lie  is  mine, 
and  you  arc  mine ;  and  I  am  ro- 
Bolved  to  use  the  authority  God  has 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


i»f 


given  mo,  and  tor  this  purpose  I 
can  and  will  compel  yon  to  live 
where  and  how  I  please,  and  subject 
you  to  my  will  and  authority, 
through  God's  pure  love  to  me;  and 
in  this  I  have  hitlierto  yielded  to  you 
the  greatest  indulgence,  and  you 
have  abused  the  liberty  and  inde- 
pendence I  trusted  you  with  as  you 
have  abused  your  every  other  bless- 
ing. I  have  therefore  felt  the  ne- 
cessity of  making  you  aware  that  I 
can  and  will  direct  your  life,  and 
this  I  will  cause  you  to  know  by  my 
actions  and  not  only  by  my  words. 
Should  you  again  write,  or  speak 
contrary  to  my  wishes,  I  will  imme- 
diately remove  your  residence,  and 
take  the  child  under  my  own  eye, 
and  superintend  the  expenditure  of 
the  money  for  God's  glory,'  &c. 

'  The  power  of  "  the  servant  of 
the  Lord,'"  gravely  continued  the 
Lord  Justice,  'over  the  husband's 
mind  seems  to  have  remained  un- 
diminished, although  the  lady  ap- 
pears to  have  been  cured.  It  is  in 
such  a  state  of  things  that  he  has 
been  endeavouring  to  acquire  the 
possession  and  custody  of  the  son, 
which  would,  of  course,  involve  the 
care  and  direction  of  his  education. 
But  there  are  other  facts  in  the  case, 
and  other  circumstances  to  be  con- 
sidered. To  what  abode  is  he  to 
take  the  child  ?  None  is  suggested, 
except  the  somewhat  mysterious  es- 
tablishment, of  which  it  seems  ne- 
cessary to  say  a  few  words.  It 
appears  that  "the  servant  of  the 
Lord"  has  founded  or  formed  a 
csenobitical  establishment,  which, 
though  not  on  the  Euripus,  but  on 
the  Bristol  Channel,  he  has  denomi- 
nated "  Agapemone,"  a  name,  no 
doubt,  adopted  in  order  to  make  the 
people  of  Somersetshire  understand 
or  guess  its  object,  which,  however, 
unluckily,  I  fear,  few  either  there  or 
elsewhere  in  any  A'ery  clear  manner 
do.  The  establishment  scarcely 
seems  to  be  a  convent  either  in  con- 
nection with  the  Greek  Church  or 
otherwise.  Its  inmates,  who  are  not 
a  few,  and  are  of  each  sex,  can  hardly 
be  nuns  or  friars,  for  some,  though 
not  all  of  them,  are  married  couples, 
and  the  men  and  women  are  not 
separated.  They,  however,  call 
themselves,  and  address  each  other. 


as  brothers  and  sisters,  and  there 
appears  to  be  something  of  a  reli- 
gious kind,  whether  really  or  only 
professedly,  in  the  nature  or  design 
of  the  institution,  which  might  ])er- 
haps  be  described  as  a  spiritual 
boarding  -  house,  though  to  wliat 
kind  of  religion,  if  any,  the  in- 
mates belong  does  not,  I  think, 
appear.  I  believe  that  they  do  not 
attend  any  place  of  worsliij),  in  or 
out  of  the  Establishment.  They 
sing  hymns,  I  think,  addressed  to 
the  Sui^reme  Being ;  but,  as  I  collect, 
they  do  not,  in  the  sense  of  suppli- 
cation or  entreaty  to  God,  pray  at 
all.  The  Agapemonians  appear  to 
set  a  high  value  ujDon  bodily  exer- 
cise of  a  cheerful  and  amusing  kind. 
Their  stables,  according  to  the  de- 
scription given  of  them,  must  be 
unexceptionable.  It  does  not  appear 
that  the  Agapemonians  hunt,  but 
they  seem  distinguished  both  as 
cavaliers  and  charioteers.  They  play 
moreover,  frequently  or  occasion- 
ally, at  lively  and  energetic  games, 
such  as  "  hockey,"  ladies  and  all,  so 
that  their  lives  may  be  considered 
less  as  ascetic  than  frohcsome.  The 
particulars,  however,  of  the  Aga- 
pemonian's  exterior  existence,  not 
being  open  to  general  observation, 
are  little,  if  at  all,  known  beyond 
their  own  boundary.  Now  this  is 
the  establishment  in  which  the  father 
in  this  case  has  been,  and  is,  one  of 
the  dwellers.  He  has,  I  apprehend, 
no  other  home,  and  thither,  accord- 
ingly, I  suppose  that  he  would  take 
his  son.  But  God  forbid  that  I 
should  be  accessory  to  condemning 
any  child  to  such  a  state  of  probable 
debasement!  As  hef  would  I  have 
on  my  conscience  the  responsibility 
of  consigning  this  boy  to  a  camj)  of 
gipsies !' 

These  extracts  illustrate  better 
than  any  words  of  ours  could  pos- 
sibly do  the  judicial  character  of  the 
Lord  Justice.  They  are  so  eharac- 
teristic  of  him,  indeed,  that  no  other 
judge  upon  the  btnch  could  have 
pronounced  it,  and  any  one  ac- 
quainted with  the  judicial  character 
and  style  of  our  judges  would  re- 
cognize it  in  a  moment:  perhaps 
any  one  of  its  more  remarkable 
passages — nay,  there  is  scarcely  a 
sentence  in  it  which  would  not  be 


188 


Fashionable  Tea  Parties. 


recognized  as  his.  The  ju(l,c:tnent, 
it  may  1x3  added,  was  delivered  six- 
teen years  ago:  tlio  Lord  Justice 
had  tlicn  htcii  several  years  upon 
the  Itench  :  he  was  still,  at  the  time  of 
writing  tliese  lines,  in  the  full  exer- 
cise of  his  great  judicial  al'ilities  in 
the  high  oflice  which  ho  had  so  long 
filled:  ho  had  thus  been  more  than 
twenty  years  upon  the  bench,  and 
had  previously  been,  we  believe, 
over  thirty  years  at  the  bar ;  and 
these  simple  facts,  taken  together, 
will  am))ly  sullice  to  show  that  Lord 
Justice  Knight  Bruce  was  one  of  tlio 
most  wonderful  men  that  we  have 
ever  known  in  modem  times  upon 


the  bench  ;  nor  was  there  any  one  in 
^Vcstn]illstcr  Hall  who  could  com- 
pare with  him  except  the  late  Lord 
Chief  Baron,  Sir  F.  rolloclc. 

\Yg  have  lately  lost  both  these 
eminent  judges:  the  tirst  by  death, 
the  latttr,  we  rejoice  to  say,  only  by 
retirement.  But  not  the  Kss — 
rather  nil  the  more  on  that  account 
—  are  they  retained  among  our 
'Sketches  ;'  for  they  botii  belonged 
to  a  great  school  of  scholaiiike  und 
accompli.^hed  lawyers,  who  iiavo 
left  none  behind  to  rival  them  in 
reputation;  and  who,  for  tliat  rea- 
son, prc-ctiiinently  deserve  to  bo 
remembered. 


FASHIONABLE  TEA  PARTIES. 


C^OUTjD  any  candid  observer  fail 
I  to  have  remarked,  in  the  events 
of  the  ])ast  season,  one  new  and 
striking  feature? 

I  allude,  not  so  much  to  the  in- 
crease of  population  as  to  that  of 
tea  parties.  The  cup  of  tea  at 
five  o'clock  has  (to  speak  figura- 
tively), crept  insiiiiously  into  the 
heart  of  our  social  life.  The  ad- 
vance, secret  at  first,  then  accepted 
with  apologj',  has  burst  this  sum- 
mer acro.ss  the  frontier  of  our 
Society,  and  bids  fair  to  drown  in 
a  weak  and  sugary  element  the  fair 
surface  of  our  afternoon  existence. 
To  analyze  the  states  of  this  invading 
custom  will  be  a  profitable  and 
instructive  employment  for  my  pen, 
and  your  thoughts,  my  l)eloved 
readers.  Is  there  rea.son  in  the 
roasting  of  eggs— how  much  more 
in  the  drinking  of  tea! 

The  suliject,  then,  before  us  is  one 
fraught  with  interest  of  the  most 
solemn  nat\ire,  and  may  mo.st  pro- 
perly Ikj  divided  into  two  parts.  In 
giving  of  tea  at  five  o'clock  there 
is  as  much  difTi.Tenco  of  mode  and 
usage  a.s  in  hainln  ss-ing  and  in  lift- 
ing of  hats  for  salutation. 

First,  then,  let  there  be  one  great 
line  of  demarcation  l>etwccn 
The  Tea  Suggestive 

and 
The  Tea  Impressive. 


The  latter,  being  the  evil  divi- 
sion, is,  like  all  things  evil,  maiiitbid 
in  its  forms,  and  may  be  subdivided 
into  the  Tea  Economical  and  the 
Tea  Magnificent. 

Tell  me,  saysCarlyle,  the  religion 
of  a  people  and  I  will  describe  their 
character.  Let  us  first  seek  the 
motive  of  the  above-named  tea- 
parties  and  then  describe  the  result. 
No  woman,  astute,  and  versed  in 
self-knowledge,  and  her  danghter 
in  the  knowledge  of  mankind,  iiut 
knows  tiiat  the  mind  is  reached 
through  the  body;  i.  c,  if  you 
make  a  man  thoroughly  comfort- 
able in  your  house  ho  will  come 
there  again.  This  is  true  logic ; 
and  I  need  not  say  what  is  the  ob- 
ject, the  motive,  the  religion,  of  the 
well-regulated  and  maternal  hou.^o- 
holder  of  Mnyfair  and  Belgravia. 
Now  for  the  result. 

'  We  are  at  homo  about  five, 
Mr.  Fitz  So-and-so,  always ;  come 
when  you  like;'  or, 

'  Do  come  in  the  afternoon  about 
tca-tinio  you  know:  we  are  always 
at  home.' 

You  happen  to  bo  in  Eaton  Place 
alwut  five,  and  you  ask  casually  if 
Lady  S is  at  home. 

'  Yes,  she  is  at  lK)mc.'  In  the 
largo  room  my' lady  is  working  at 
that  pretty  lace-work,  a  little  table 
by  her  with  her  scissor.s,  and  a  big 


Fashionable  Tea  Parties. 


189 


sweet  ro£0  in  a  specimen  glass. 
There  is  a  cunningly  stuifed  arm- 
chair for  you ;  there  are  sofas  that 
you  can  sit  on  with  your  hat  beside 
you ;  not  barricaded  by  unwiuMy 
writing- tables  as  are  some  sofas,  hke 
a  fortitiod  town.  Julie,  wIdiu  you 
are  rather  fon'l  of,  is  playing  softly 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  with  the 
light  behind  her  from  a.n  open 
window  with  flowers.  Looloo  is 
writing  notes  in  the  little  room  with 
red  blinds  and  more  flowers. 

Julie  comes  to  talk  to  you ;  she 
shows  you  her  dear  little  workbag 
with  the  fox's  head,  and  wishes  you 
would  tell  her  the  exact  size  that 
she  should  make  her  cigar-case  of 
*  ticking.'  Mamma  rings  the  bell. 
John   brings  a   snug  three-legged 


table  out  of  a  corner;  there  is  a 
shiny  white  cloth  and  glittering 
silver,  and  little  flat  cups,  and  round 
buns  with  cuiTauts  in  them— not 
muflins,  they  grease  your  gloves, 
and  the  girls  have  voted  them  low 
form,  though  to  bo  sure  how  good 
they  are !  Your  particular  friend 
'  Whatsisname,'  of  the  Cold  streams, 
comes  in,  and  Looloo  makes  tea. 
You  feel  as  if  you  had  always  been 
there  ;  you  have  plenty  to  gay,  and 
you  forget  the  existence  of  your 
hat ;  the  tea  is  hot,  and  strong,  and 
brown.  Looloo  has  a  wicked  little 
apron  with  pockets,  and  blue  bows 
at  the  corners,  and  makes  tea  per- 
fectly. 

Mamma  is  charming  ;  she  does  not 
make  love  to  you  more   than  you 


190 


Fashionable  Tea  Parties. 


like,  nor  iell  her  danphtcr  to  '  sing 
that  swc'tt  8oiif:,  deurtst,  tliat  So- 
and-go  aimire<l  80  mudi;'  but  slio 
talks  s;)  well  that  you  find  yourself 
the  plc'a.saiik'-;t  man  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, and  \ou  go  away,  with 
a  little  f-igh  of  rejirot,  and  witli  the 
impression  that,  after  all,  what  a 
shame  it  is,  the  way  they  abuse 
mothers-in-law.       One  could  fancy 

Lady  S ,  now! 

You  titid  yourself  pretty  often  in 
Eaton  PlaL-e.  Next  time  you  go 
there  is  a  new  face  there,  a  very 
pretty,  cheery  girl,Xooloo's  special 
chum,  also  an  old  fellow  who  is 
talking  family  with  Mamma. 

Julie  is  quite  cl  arming,  in  a  pink 
skirt  and  little  silver  l)uttons:  she 
tells  you  her  confidential  opinions, 
gives  you  her  fiartieular  photo- 
book  to  look  at ;  and  she  sings  you 
French  romances  that  gloat  and 
quiver  through  the  twilight. 

Naturally  you  go  again;  so  do 
"What^hisname,  and  the  pretty  girl, 
and  the  old  fellow;  so  does  every 
one  that  is  nice,  and  likes  nice 
things.  The  room  is  never  full  of 
stupid  callers.  A  whole  family  of 
large  women  is  not  announced  dur- 
ing your  visit,  to  sit  stolidly  before 
you  and  ask  (inestions;  nor  do  sud- 
den and  affectionate  incursions  of 
near  relations  take  place  and  engross 
your  hostesses. 

The  girls  are  prettily  dressed, 
work  pretty  work.  There  are  scraps 
and  bits  of  bright  colours,  and  little 
baskets  on  three-legged  tables, 
'  suggtslive' of  cricket-belts,  cigar- 
cases,  slippers,  and  the  like.  You 
do  not  sit  on  stiff,  slender  chairs, 
at  a  certain  distance  from  a  thick 
table,  with  idle  hands  on  your  laps 
or  smoothing  uneasy  hats.  There 
is  no  glare  of  light,  rosy  blinds  half 
down,  c  )i)l  jalousies  ami  green 
plants;  all  dark,  co.»l,  fragrant,  in 
summer;  ro'jy,  cosy,  wanu  in  early 
spring  or  winter.  I'osMbly  in  pri- 
vate, Julie  and  Looloo  may  s<|uabble. 
Mamma  may  scold,  but  to  the'  eye 
of  the  tta-drinking  guests  all  is 
harmonious — '  {Suggestive.' 

ilpw  difl'trent  is  tiio  Tea  Impres- 
sive.    Balls,  papa  will  not  allow. 

L>inuerH  are  so  costly — so  unrc- 
muneative.  Y'ou  must  receive  or 
l»o  lorgotlcn— A  drum -No,  not  a 


drum!  the  yoxing  men  will  not 
come  to  a  drum— and  it  entails 
supper  and  liKlitiiiK-  Mumma  and 
the  daughters  co^'itato.  (Jive  them 
tea— yes— five  o'(rlock  tea.  '  Mrs. 
Uphill  at  home  Tuesdays  and  Fri- 
days in  June,  four  to  .seven.' 

Cards  are  sent  to  all  and  simdry, 
for  one  may  as  well  bo  popular — 
vive  Vcconoiruc. 

Weak  tea  in  the  dining-room, 
made  by  the  cook  and  ladies"  maids, 
to  l)e  drunk  standing  in  a  thorough 
draught,  with  your  heels  on  Lady 
Longtruiu's  g)wn,  and  your  toes 
under  the  ponderous  footstep  of 
Mrs.  Rightoway  ;  at  the  door  up- 
stairs stands  your  hostess  in  lilac 
silk  and  a  sweet  smile;  the  inevi- 
table white  poDdle  under  her  arm — 
'  Is  it  not  a  dear  doggums?  So 
good  of  you  to  come.' 

'  What  a  charming  little  do—' 
your  pretty  speech  is  broken  by  the 
vociferation  ot  the  butler,  and  by 
a  push  froui  behind  and  before. 
The  room  like  the  stairs  is  choked 
with  '  lovely  women ;'  a  hothouse 
full  of  artificial  flowers.  You  find 
yourself  close  face  to  face  with  three 
tall  young  ladies,  whoso  faces  you 
are  tir<  d  of,  but  to  whom  you  never 
have  been  introluced;  you  are 
hemmed  in  and  feel  like  a  fool,  when 
you  smile  feebly  and  bow,  to  some 
one  who  is  recognizing  you  from 
the  other  end  of  the  room. 

There  are  the  most  wondcrfurold 
ladies.  It  is  solemn  and  silent, 
and  yet  there  is  a  distracting  buzz 
of  voices.  Faint  moaning  from  an 
inner  chamber  betokens  music.  A 
few  victims  arc  seated  near  the  per- 
former, who  sings  in  a  g'lastly  man- 
ner, with  a  sense  of  being  unappre- 
ciated. No  music  has  l)een  pre- 
concerted. The  tenor  ha.s  bien 
dragged  from  a  group  of  ladies  and 
coerced  into  a  song,  against  his  will. 
A  stout  young  lady  thump-!  and 
rushes  on  the  piano ;  nobody 
listens,  but  a  heavy  silence  is  en- 
forced. On  every  face  a  gloomy 
patience  or  a  sullen  smile  is  seen. 
The  girls  watch  each  other's  bon- 
nets; the  old  ladies  tread  upijn  each 
other,  and  jtush  and  go  up  and 
down  stairs.  Thero  is  generally 
one  man  there ;  ho  casts  untsasy 
glances  round  him,  and  is  afraid  of 


FasMonnhle  Tea  Parties. 


191 


so  many  women;  his  counterance 
does  not  conceal  that  he  is  bored 
and  wishes  he  wer(>  at  his  club ;  he 
is  chiefly  happy  if  he  can  find  an 
acquaintance,  when  ho  professes  a 
hypocritical  interest  and  fervour, 
squeezes  himself  behind  her  into  a 
chair,  aud  tallcs  under  his  breath, 
and  is  absorbed. 

But  he  escapes  when  he  can,  and 
vows  silently,  but  solemnly,  that 
'  never,  never.'  When  all  are  gone, 
it  is  seven  o'clock  ;  Mrs.  Uphill  and 
the  daughters  eat  up  the  remains  of 
the  bread  and  butter,  and  congra- 
tulate themselves  on  the  success  of 
their  party. 

The  '  Magnificent'  differs  from 
the  '  Economical '  chiefly  in  regard 
to  the  food  provided  for  the  bodily 
sustenance  of  the  invited.  Weari- 
ness unutterable  for  the  mind  still 
pervades  the  crowd,  and  seats  are 
wanting  to  rest  the  limbs  where- 
with ;  but  there  is  claret  cup, 
champagne  cup,  grapes,  straw- 
berries, and,  0  pregnant  fact !  there 
are  more  men. 

The  Tea  Magnificent  is  generally 
indicative  of  a  brother,  one  or  more, 
and  he  brings  his  friends  or  ought 
to  do  60.  It  is  not  a  case  of  Tues- 
days and  Fridays  in  June.  It  is  a 
great  efifort — '  Supreme,'  as  Victor 
Hugo  would  say  ;  a  little  buffet  in 
the  back  drawing-room,  mingled 
sounds  of  Campana's  duets,  and  the 
clatter  of  spoons. 

*  lo  vivo  e  t'amo/ — '  iced  coffee, 
please.' 

'  Non  posso  vivere  senza  di  te.' 

*  Champagne  or  claret  cup?' 
Lady  and   Miss  de   Tankerville, 

Sir  Roger  de  Tankerville. 

'  Ah,  ha,  mio  be-ne.'  One  re- 
quires here  two  ears  at  least  to  take 
in  the  combination.  Useful  young 
ladies  untie  their  bonnet-strings 
after  artful  surprise  at  being  called 
to  sing  the  duet  they  had  specially 
prepared  for  the  occasion.  The 
hostess  prowls  amiably  and  picks 
off  the  musical  guests  for  a  chorus. 
Sponge-cakes  and  fruit  do  not  im- 
prove the  voices,  and  the  soprani 
never  are  in  tune,  but  the  '  Eon- 
dinolla'  is  victimized,  and  as  nobody 
listens  it  does  not  much  matter. 
The  hostess  has  been  making  pretty 
speeches  to  every  one  that  she  can. 


and  she  makes  tho  prettiest  of  all 
to  the  pet  tenor,  who  is  out  of  sorts 
because  the  man  of  all  others  wliom 
ho  hates,  and  who  sings  his  new 
song  with  the  A  sharp,  which  is  his 
special  hit,  has  been  asked  to  sing 
before  him.  There  is  a  lady  singer 
with  a  wonderful  gown  and  a  silvery 
voice,  but  she  won't  sing  a  note, 
and  the  hostess  devours  her  wrath 
as  best  she  may,  and  pretends  to 
understand  and  believe  in  the 
*  little  cold '  that  causes  the  refusal. 
If  the  bufftt  be  down  stairs  tho 
scene  of  action  is  chiefly  at  door- 
ways and  on  the  staircase.  Cunning 
and  acquisitiveness  are  called  into 
play.  l)owagers '  spot '  likely  young 
men,  and  victims  are  sacrificed  to 
hungry  mothers ;  biat  take  it  alto- 
gether the  '  temper  of  the  mob'  is 
a  better  one  than  at  most  public 
meetings;  the  men  drink  and  are 
amenable;  the  old  Avomen  eat  and 
are  content ;  the  young  ones  have,  or 
hope  they  have,  some  one  to  admire 
them,  and  a  httle  b-asiness  may  be 
done  with  boudoirs  and  back  stairs, 
but  it  is  always  lame,  and  I  should 
never  advise  it  except  in  extreme 
and  desperate  cases.  Flirting  in 
bonnet  strings  and  a  hot  room  is 
never  good  for  much.  Cornets  or 
very  young  clerks  are  possible, 
but  the  full-grown  object  is  apt 
to  have  an  engagement  at  the 
club  or  a  quiet  little  *  Suggestive' 
somewhere  else,  or  a  match  at 
Lord's,  and  is  impatient  and  dis- 
traught. With  a  social  meeting,  a 
gathering  together  of  friends  and 
acquaintances— such  as  the  original 
tea  party  might  suppose  itself  to 
mean,  the  Tea  Impressive,  whether 
economical  or  magnificent,  has  of 
course  nothing  in  common.  But — as 
a  comprehensive  mode  of  receiving 
acquaintances  and  friends— it  is  un- 
rivalled in  the  annals  of  the  ijast 
seasons,  for  it  combines  the  two 
great  elements  of  modern  entertain- 
ment—  it  includes  all  and  pleases, 
none. 

Some  day,  I  live  in  hopes,  that 
a  spirited  leader  of  fashion  may 
arise  and  introduce  a  mode  of  en- 
tertainment more  sensible  and  pleas- 
ing aud  equally  general  and  iro- 
partial. 

Instead  of  inviting  to  her  house 


192 


F(i»hi>tinbl''.  Tin  Parties. 


more  pcDplo  than  it  will  liold  at 
the  hour  whoii  open  air  and  cxtroiso 
ought  to  supplant  airless  rooms  and 
crowded  stairciLscs,  let  her  issue 
tickets  entitling  the  bearer  to  such 
portion  of  delicacies  at  Guntcr's  or 
Brunette's  as  sliall  be  equivalent 
to  the  feast  f-ho  would  otler  them 
in  her  dining-room,  to  bo  obtained 
at  what  hour  and  on  wliat  day  the 
possessor  of  the  ticket  shall  oho jse. 
Tliis  would   at   once  evince  hospi- 


tality and  avoid  confusion;  and  tho 
glorification  of  tlie  giver  of  (ho  tea 
impressive  would-be  methinks,  en- 
hanced   by    tho    publicity    of    tho 
matter.     To  llie  giver  of  tho  Sug- 
gestive  I  need  olTer  do  bint.     To 
the    fair    Julie   and    the     amiable 
Looloo  I  dedicate  tho  motto — 
Non  posso  vivero 
Seuza  di' 
Tea. 


I'aiiited  by  W.  V.  Frith.  K.  A.] 


HONEYWOOD  i^ 
Dnnvii  ami  ctij^ravuil  by  W.  F-.  Tlioinas,  by  per 


3|he  bailiffs. 

!  [See  "  Artist's  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures." 

•   Artist,  who  reserves  all  rights  in  the  Copyritrht. 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


MARCH,    1867. 


WOMEN  AND  THEIE  WAYS. 


TOM 

SLENDER. 


I EOM  the  day  when  Eve  first  came  before 
Adam, '  a  woman  fair  and  graceful  spouse,' 
down  to  the  present  time  in  which  we  live, 
woman  has  been  both  the  blessing  and  the 
curse  of  mankind.  She  has  been  the  cause  of 
W/^  strife  and  ruin,  of  misery  and  bloodshed  among 
^'^  nations,  and  in  domestic  hfe  has  not  unfrequently 
been  the  discordant  and  jarring  element.  Yet  she 
is  also  the  very  type  and  embodiment  of  all  grace 
and  virtue,  the  source  and  centre  of  peace  and  re- 
conciliation, the  one  gracious  influence  which  softens  and  humanizes  man- 
kind, reconciliug  the  contradictions  of  opposing  wills  and  natures  and 
bringing  them  into  harmony  by  her  healing  presence.  Poets  have  never 
ceased  to  sing  her  praises,  and  these  songs  have  been  among  their  best 
and  happiest  efforts.  She  has  been  their  inspiration,  awakening  in  them 
all  their  chivalry  and  love  of  the  beautiful  and  pure.  They  who  have,  like 
Scott,  spoken  of  her  as  capricious,  have,  like  him,  almost  in  the  same 
breath  laid  at  her  feet  the  just  tribute  of  their  praise. 

'  0  woman,  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
AuA  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !' 

There  is  no  heart  so  dead  to  all  good  influence  that  is  not  touched  by 
the  exhibition  of  a  woman's  unselfish,  undying  love,  which  is  ever  ready 
to  requite  evil  with  good,  and  to  forget  the  wrong  that  has  been  done  in 
her  desire  to  win  back  the  affection  that  has  strayed.  She  calmly  waits  her 
opportunity,  '  hoping  against  hope,'  and  praying  that  it  may  come,  and  with 
a  wondrous  patience  and  winning  grace  welcomes  the  first  indications  of 
a  return,  and  goes  forth  clad  in  robes  of  purity,  forgiveness,  and  love 
to  meet  the  wanderer  and  aid  or  hasten  his  faltering  steps.  There  is  no 
eight   more  beautiful  than  that  of  a  woman's   inexhaustible  tenderness, 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIII.  o 


VJi 


n  omen  ana  tnnr  nnys. 


I  iiiiinnnlly  promptina:  her  to  give 
that  ready  pjuii'iittiy  which 

*  Angel  hearts  bestow 
Who  look  for  no  return." 

Fnr  bick  in  out  lives  we  can  trace 
the  hallowing  influence  of  a  woman's 
presence,  thu  footj)riiits  of  whicli 
have  iiot  jct  iKen  trodden  out  by 
time.  The  watchfulness  of  a  mother's 
love,  her  uiiPeltish  care,  lier  ready 
tar,  and  quick  response  to  our 
childisli  pncfs,  have  left  an  irnpres- 
i-ion  which  nothing  can  efface,  and 
which  puts  us  in  gofid-humourwith 
all  woniiitikind.  The  memory  of 
tinnundiered  blessings  that  have 
sprung  from  her  gathers  round  us 
tvtn  in  advanced  life,  when  all  feel- 
ing of  romance  has  long  since  died 
iiway,  and  the  very  name  of  woman 
awtikens  in  us  feelings  of  reverent 
aflfection.  ^Irs.  Norton's  beautiful 
lines  addressed  to  the  Duel. ess  of 
Sutherliind  are  applicable  to  women 
generally. 

'Like  a  white  swan  down  a  tronbled  stream, 
ANTiosc  niff.iiig  pinions  hath  the  power  to  fling 
Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  tkirkly  gleam 
And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  uing, 
So  (the)  with  queenly  prace  and  gentle  pride 
Along  the  world's  dark  waves  la  purity  doth 

glide.' 

But  leaving  for  a  moment  this  sen- 
timental but  just  view  of  ■woman- 
kind, we  will  lieguile  ourselves  with 
tlio  conf^'deration  of  some  of  those 
l)ecu!iarities  which  are  exhibited  in 
certain  specimens  of  the  fair  sex. 
There  is  nothing  more  true  than 
the  old  adage  that  '  all  is  not  gold 
that  glitters;'  and  it  may  \>o  faUl 
uith  equal  truth  that  all  women 
are  not  fair.  There  arc  exceptions 
to  every  rule,  end  if  we  amuse  our- 
selves for  a  time  at  the  expense  of 
those  exceptional  cases,  we  trust 
that  we  have  already  sufficiently 
guaidtd  against  the  possibility  of 
our  King  charged  with  insensibility 
to  the  1  lower  of  woinan's  charms  of 
mind  and  person. 

Nature  is  full  of  exceptions  to  its 
ordinary  rnles,  and  incongruities 
and  ecctntricifies  arp  to  l)e  found  in 
the  very  midst  of  its  most  beautitul 
works.  It  is  therefore  no  reproach 
to  the  fair  stx  to  say  that  some 
women  have  peculiar  ways  which 
would  fairly  puzzle  the  man  who 


had  not  been  more  or  loss  acclima- 
tized to  them.  '  Woman's  at  btst 
a  coiitiadicticm  still,"  says  Pop.  ;  aud 
certainly  no  angler  was  ever  more 
at  a  loss  among  the  slijipery  and 
finny  tril)e  than  man  is  among 
wayward,  capricious,  and  inamsc- 
rjiithfr  women.  It  is  next  to  im- 
possible to  know  how  to  take  them. 
That  which  ))lcases  to-day  is  an 
otfence  to-morrow.  Their  moods 
are  so  variable  that  no  one  can 
be  certain  of  them  for  two  hours 
together.  /•>'./ ly/r'av*/'  ami  capricious, 
the  disproportion  of  their  demands 
is  only  to  l>e  eriualled  by  the  un- 
accountable jit  fulness  -with  which 
they  change;  and  any  one  who  has 
burnt  his  fingers  in  the  vain  endea- 
vour to  meet  and  satisfy  their  wishes, 
soon  learns,  in  the  ])aintul  process, 
to  wait  with  calm  inditytience  for 
the  passing  away  of  their  ever-va- 
rying moods. 

Tlieio  are  women  who  have  a 
marvellous  faculty  for  skimming 
rapidly  over  the  surface  of  things, 
reminding  one  of  the  swallow  as 
he  sometimes  skims  over  the  water 
in  search  of  food,  dipping  here  and 
there  in  his  rapid  flight.  It  is  as 
brtathle-ss  and  fatiguing  to  follow 
them  in  their  cnnversation  as  to 
pursue  a  squirrel  as  he  leaps  with 
wonderful  agility  from  tree  to  tree. 
No  sooner  do  y>\\  imagine  that  you 
have  caught  their  meaning,  and  arc 
going  to  enjoj  a  little  conversation 
that  can  boast  of  some  con'-ecutive- 
ness,  than  you  are  obliged,  by  a 
powerful  wrench  or  intellectual 
sleight  of  hand,  which  recalls  the 
ftats  of  acrobats  and  juj^glers,  to 
divert  your  thouj.dit8  "suddenly  into 
a  totally  difTcient  chanrel,  wholly 
unconnected  with  anything  that 
has  gone  l>cfore,  till  you  are  led 
through  mazes  of  which  a  volatile 
woman  alttiic  is  capable.  Over- 
powered with  the  exertions  of  the 
chase,  you  give  uj),  simply  exhausted 
by  the  proetss,  witiiout  any  clear 
or  distinct  idea  on  any  one  subject. 
This  exercise  is  Irequently  accom- 
panied by  a  considerable  amount  of 
vivacit>  and  vnhutc,  which  imparts 
a  raeiness  to  the  entertainment, 
which  would  otherwise  be  only  un- 
bearal)le.  Shouts  of  laughter  suc- 
ceed one  another  jus  you  lind  yourself 


Women  and  their  Ways. 


195 


engaged  in  a  kind  of  steeiDlechase, 
or  in  an  intellectual  version  of  the 
old-fasbioned  game  of  '  hunt  the 
slipper,'  only  with  this  difference, 
that  the  slipper  is  rarely  the  same 
tor  two  minutes  together.  Or  it 
may  be  that  the  transitions  are  too 
rajjid  for  the  completion  of  any 
pcntenco  calculated  to  explain  the 
idea  which,  for  the  moment,  has 
possession  of  the  mind ;  and  while 
you  strain  every  faculty  you  have 
in  order  to  gain  some  insight  into 
the  meaning  of  what  is  said,  you 
are  abruptly  asked,  in  the  middle 
of  nalf-uttercd,  half-expressed,  in- 
coherent and  broken  sentences, 
whether  you  do  not  understand. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  arch  good- 
humour  with  which  the  question 
is  put,  you  would  feel  disposed  to 
resent  such  an  off-handed  way  of 
disposing  of  conversation.  And, 
after  all,  what  is  it  you  are  supposed 
to  understand  ?  ideas  not  ex- 
pressed; thoughts  not  .shaped  into 
words.  Fairly  puzzled,  yet  un- 
willing to  own  your  defeat,  or  too 
courteous  to  insinuate  the  utter  in- 
comprehensibleness  of  your  fair 
friend,  you  either  try  to  catch  at 
some  meaning  as  well  as  you  can,  or 
content  yourself  with  giving  a  vague 
kind  of  answer  that  may  mean  any- 
thing or  nothing,  or  endeavour  to 
shelve  the  whole  matter  by  an  afSr- 
mative  which,  if  not  strictly  in 
accordance  with  the  truth,  seems 
the  only  loophole  of  escape.  This 
game  is  played  again  and  again 
with  equal  .naivete,  and  the  most 
abstruse  questions  are  touched  upon 
in  the  same  reckless  and  superficial 
manner,  for  no  subject  is  either  too 
grave  or  too  deep  for  them.  No  sphy  ux 
ever  uttered  darker  sayings  or  pro- 
pounded more  perplexing  riddles. 

Tliere  are  certain  privileges  which 
women  claim  for  themselves,  and  to 
which  no  man  would  dispute  their 
right ;  but  there  are  others  which 
we  should  not  be  so  willing  to  ac- 
cord to  them.  For  instance,  women 
may  change  their  minds  or  express 
dissatisfaction  at  their  pleasure. 
They  would,  no  doubt,  resent  its 
being  treated  as  complaint  or  dis- 
content, but  how  they  would  desig- 
nate the  peculiar  disposition  of  mind 
to  which  we  refer  it  is  not  for  us  to 


say.  In  the  absence  of  any  other 
name,  we  can  only  spoak  of  what  it 
resembles,  and  describe  it  as  it  is  to 
be  found.  Everything  is  out  of 
tune  ;  nothing  is  right.  The  gown 
does  not  fit ;  is  not  the  right  colour, 
nor  the  right  cut ;  is  not  suited  to 
the  weather  or  the  season;  it  is 
either  too  hot  or  too  cold,  too  thick 
or  too  thin,  too  heavy  or  too« light. 
The  bonnet  is  equally  at  fault.  The 
carriage  should  be  open  when  it  is 
closed,  and  vice  versa.  The  dinner 
is  not  right ;  the  meat  not  tender ; 
the  hour  is  wrong ;  the  '  service ' 
indifferent;  the  company  not  well 
assorted.  If  they  go  to  one  theatre, 
they  instantly  discover  they  ought 
to  have  gone  to  another.     If  they 

visit  Lady ,  or  Mrs. ,  they 

are  envious  of  the  furniture  and  de- 
corations. They  continually  com- 
plain of  what  they  have,  and  covet 
what  they  have  not  got.  It  is  true 
that  the  complaint  generally  refers 
to  the  more  superficial  circumstances 
of  daily  life ;  but  if  an  effort  is  made 
to  remove  the  cause  of  offence,  or  to 
supply  what  is  wanting,  then  that 
is,  in  its  turn,  converted  into  a 
grievance,  and  men  are  railed 
against  for  being  so  *  stupid '  and 
'  narrow-minded '  as  to  lake  them  at 
their  word.  They  consider  it  a  hard- 
ship that  they  are  not  allowed  to 
grumble  ad  libitum,  and  are,  or  pre- 
tend to  be,  provoked  that  any 
should  be  so  dull  and  matter-of-fact 
as  to  take  them  au  j^ied '  de  la 
Jettre,  and  endeavour  to  provide  a 
remedy  against  that  which,  after  all, 
proves  to  be  their  pastime.  It  is 
very  diflicult  to  imagine  it  possible 
that  there  should  be  any  hvxe  in 
grumbling :  yet  so  it  is.  There  are 
women  to  whom  it  is  as  much  a 
part  of  their  life  as  it  is  to  eat  and 
drink.  Yet  as  it  is  said  that  two 
things  are  essential  to  the  happiness 
of  every  Englishman — a  grievance, 
and  some  one  to  tell  it  to— why 
should  we  be  astonished  at  the  fact 
that  there  are  women  who  love  a 
good  grumble  and  find  a  pleasure 
in  crying  for  the  moon  ? 

We  have  all  been  introduced  to 
the  '  Naggletons,'  and  might,  with- 
out any  very  great  difficulty,  find 
the  exact  counterpart  of  Mrs.  Nag- 
gleton  among  our  friends  and  ac- 

0    3 


106 


Women  and  their  Wnya. 


qiiaintanccs.  Sho  is  by  no  means 
a  ritni  (Id's.  '  Knapping'  is  a  most 
cxprt'S.'iivo  word.  Its  very  sound 
denotes  that  ronpbness  of  teni]>er 
which  is  continually  fretting  against 
people  and  things.  .Some  women 
have  a  peculiar  talent  for  ceaseless 
captiousness,  which  it  is  their  de- 
light to  exerci.se  every  day  and  hour 
with  unaliated  vigour,  ket|)ing  it 
free  from  rust.  Tliey  (lo  not  waste 
their  strength  and  time  in  violent 
outhnrsts  of  vituixjration,  hut  by 
means  of  incessant  reproaches  and 
twittings  keep  their  victims  in  a 
state  of  perpetual  discomfort.  Water 
will  wear  a  stone  by  its  continual 
droppuig  ;  and  these  women  know 
how  to  wear  out  tlie  peace  of  a  man's 
life  by  their  unremitted  '  knagging.' 
It  is  a  in-ocess  of  slow  torture,  not 
unlike  the  tactics  of  a  cat  towards  a 
mouse,  or  of  a  spider  towards  a  fly. 
Women  who  have  this  peculiar  gift 
generally  select  as  their  victims 
those  of  an  easy  temper  who  are 
not  conspicuous  for  any  strength  of 
character,  but  who  possess  a  certain 
fund  olhfinliommir.  They  find  them 
best  suited  to  their  purpose,  and 
well  disposed  to  submit  to  the  in- 
evitable for  the  sake  of  a  quiet 
home.  In  adilition  to  her  other 
powers,  Mrs.  Naggleton  has  the 
faculty  of  always  making  herself 
appear  as  the  martyr.  While  sho 
tortures  her  victim  she  assumes  the 
air  of  mjured  innocence,  and  tries 
to  persua<le  others,  as  successfully 
as  she  persuades  herself,  that  she  is 
herself  the  victim  of  an  inconstant, 
neglectful,  or  inconsiderate  hus- 
band; and,  with  wonderful  self- 
command,  sho  goads  him  to  say  or 
do  something  which  shall  put  her 
in  the  right.  With  great  cleverness 
sho  baits  her  bull,  and  at  the  samo 
time  getfl  out  of  him  opportunities 
for  further  sport.  Having  also  the 
'  gift  of  tears,'  she  calls  them  in  to 
her  aid,  when  other  measures  fail, 
and  the  old  tactics  seem  to  have 
l(jst  their  power,  and  is  content  to 
gain  her  point  even  at  the  cost  of  a 
little  apparent  weakness;  for  she 
knows  that  few  men  can  withstand 
'  the  unanswerable  tear  in  woman's 
eye.' 

The  love  of  cruelty  is  inherent  in 
human  nature,  and  women  ore  no 


exception  to  the  rule.  It  is  certainly 
the  most  hateful  as|)ect  under  which 
they  can  present  themselves  l)eforo 
us  ;  an<l  the  idea  itself  is  so  entirely 
contradictory  to  all  that  distin- 
guishes a  woman  from  the  rest  of 
the  creation,  that  it  seems  almost 
paradoxical  to  say  that  she  can  1)6 
cruel.  Yet  it  is  not  so  by  any 
means.  History  can  supjily  us  with 
too  many  instances  in  which  women 
hav(3  l)een  conspicuous  for  their 
cruelty,  and  the  annals  of  crime  re- 
cord against  them  some  of  the  most 
revolting  murders  an<l  crimes.  The 
form  of  cruelty  to  which  we  refer  is 
generally  comliined  with  a  certain 
cleverness  which  belongs  to  women 
who  liavo  the  reputation  for  lieing 
intrif/Kdntes.  It  is,  of  course,  com- 
bined also  with  unscrupniousness; 
because  no  one  can  l>c  both  cruel 
and  considerate  towards  others.  If 
an  unkind  thing  can  be  done  or 
said,  they  say  it  and  do  it  not  only 
without  hesitation  or  coinpuuftion, 
but  even  with  satisfaction.  They 
take  pleasure  in  playing  upon  a  raw, 
in  dialing  a  wountled  spirit,  in 
goading  ahnost  to  madness  a  mind 
that  is,  perhaps,  already  heavily 
laden.  With  wonderful  discrimiria- 
tion  and  quickness  of  pirception 
they  can  discover  the  weak  point 
where  an  assault  can  1x3  made  with 
success,  and  they  direct  their  efl'orts 
to  it.  Where  their  own  schemes 
and  designs  are  immediately  or  in- 
directly concerned,  they  are  not 
likely  to  show  pity;  but  apart  from 
this  they  take  actual  pleasure  in 
wounding,  and  in  watching  the 
eftects  of  their  cruelty.  It  is  their 
amusement  and  their  sport.  No  tie 
of  relationship,  however  close  and 
intimate,  is  any  protection  from 
their  lash.  '  Their  tongues  are 
sharp  swords,  and  the  poi.son  of 
asps  is  under  their  lips.'  If,  by 
any  chance,  a  young  wife,  whose 
experience  of  life  is  imt  short,  comes 
across  her  path,  the  cruel  woman 
will  amuse  herself  at  her  expense. 
She  will  sow  the  seeds  of  suspicion 
and  di.strust ;  will  open  the  eyes  of 
her  unsuspecting  victim  to  any  im- 
perfections in  her  husband's  charac- 
ter ;  will  suggest  the  thought  that 
he  has  concealments  from  her.  If 
she  has  known  him  in  his  bachelor 


Women  and  their  Ways. 


197 


(lays  she  will  pretend  to  a  more  in- 
timate acquaiutanfe  with  his  opi- 
nions, leelings,  and  habits  ;  will  re- 
fer, with  an  air  of  mystery,  to  some 
circumstance  or  event  of  his  past 
life  which,  without  any  evil  inten- 
tion, he  may  not  have  disclosed  to 
his  wife,  and  will  feign  astonishment 
when,  in  reply  to  her  repeated  and 
off-hand  assurance  that  '  of  course 
her  husband  had  told  her  all  this 
long  ago,'  she  sees  nothing  but  the 
blank  look  of  ignorance,  and  will 
aiiect  surprise  that  the  past  is  such 
a  sealed  book  to  the  young  wife, 
who  sits  quivering  under  the  tortur- 
ing proce.ss.  Or,  in  the  very  wan- 
tonness of  her  love  of  mischief  she 
will  assume  that,  be  it  as  it  may 
with  regard  to  the  past,  there  must 
be  perfect  unanimity  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  the  present ;  and  making  the 
most  of  such  knowledge  as  she  can 
acquire,  will  convey  the  impression 
that  she  possesses  the  confidence 
which  belongs  to  the  wife,  even 
while  she  assumes,  in  the  very  ex- 
quisiteness  of  her  cruelty,  that  that 
confidence  has  not  been  withheld 
from  her  to  whom  it  is  due:  or, 
varying  her  mode  of  attack,  will 
comment  upon  the  dress  or  equi- 
page, assuming  that  it  has  been 
directed  and  provided  by  the  care 
and  forethought  of  an  attentive  and 
devoted  husband,  while  she  knows 
that  these  are  not  matters  which 
occupy  his  thoughts  in  any  degree. 
The  cruel  woman  knows  well  how 
to  take  the  brightness  out  of  every- 
thing, and  how  to  say  the  most 
cruel,  cutting  things  in  the  blandest 
possible  tones.  If  her  cleverness 
secures  for  her  a  favourable  recep- 
tion in  society,  the  withdrawal  of 
her  presence  always  occasions  a 
sense  of  relief,  though  she  never 
fails  to  leave  a  sting  behind.  Just 
as  the  presence  of  a  hawk  causes  a 
commotion  among  the  small  birds, 
she  creates  a  sensation  wherever  she 
goes.  Her  dearest  friends  are  not 
safe,  for  she  will  not  scriaple  to 
sacrifice  their  comfort  and  hapi^iness 
to  her  love  of  cruelty,  and  she  hails 
the  sight  of  tears  as  a  tribute  to  her 
power.  Such  women  are  essentially 
birds  of  prey,  and  though  such  ex- 
amples are  rare  they  are  not  alto- 
gether unknown. 


From  the  extreme  susceptibility 
and  nervous  organization  of  women, 
there  is  a  considerable  tendency  to 
excitement  and  versatility,  which 
conduces  to  impatience  of  the  minor 
circumstances  of  life.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  smaller  contra- 
dictions of  daily  life  are,  in  a  certain 
sense,  harder  to  bear  than  many  of 
its  severer  trials.  Against  the 
former  we  are  not  specially  pre- 
pared or  on  our  guard ;  against  the 
latter  we  are.  Against  the  one  we 
set  all  the  fortitude  of  which  we  are 
capable,  but  of  the  others  we  take 
little  heed.  We  are  disposed  to  let 
them  take  their  chance,  and  in  this 
dangerous  security  lies  the  secret  of 
their  strength  and  our  weakness. 
As  a  rule,  the  lives  of  women  are 
more  affected  by  externals.  Their 
occupations  and  interests  are  of  the 
lighter  kind,  and  hence  the  small 
events  of  everyday  life  are  a  greater 
fret  to  them ;  they  both  feel  them 
more  keenly  and  are  more  influ- 
enced by  them.  This  is  not  said 
disparagingly,  but  only  to  account, 
in  some  degree,  for  the  peculiar 
susceptibility  and  impatience  which 
women  frequently  exhibit.  The 
variations  of  weather  produce  cor- 
responding changes  in  our  natures. 
A  dark  day  infects  the  mind  with  its 
gloom,  and  the  nervous  system  acts 
like  a  barometer  under  the  varying 
influence  of  the  temperature.  There- 
fore it  is  not  astonishing  that  the 
thwartings  of  daily  life  should  have 
the  effect  of  exciting  impatience  in 
natures  which  are  so  finely  consti- 
tuted. As  the  faintest  breeze  can 
awaken  the  notes  of  an  /Eolian 
harp,  so  the  shghtest  ripple  in  the 
circumstances  of  life  can  call  into 
existence  those  feelings  which  are 
especially  under  the  influence  of  the 
nerves.  The  nervous,  impatient 
woman  is  a  torment  to  herself  as 
well  as  to  others.  She  demands  the 
utmost  promptitude  in  the  execu- 
tion of  her  wishes.  No  one  is  quick 
enough,  and  yet  all  are  too  quick. 
Her  jaste  milieu  is  unattainable. 
Though  it  is  impossible,  without  a 
spirit  of  divination  always  lo  fore- 
stall another's  wants,  yet  the  irri- 
table woman  is  in  a  frenzy  if  her 
requirements  are  not  speedily  met. 
Servants,  children,  friends,  all  are 


198 


Women  and  their  Wai/$. 


in  fiult,  and  she  is  always  com- 
pkininsj  why  her  chari  )t-wheels 
eeem  to  tarry.  Life  is  frenzied; 
energies  are  wasted  on  tnflt^s,  and 
the  most  intense  vt-bemence  of  words 
and  manner  accompanies  the  most 
tririal  acts.  Kepose  and  qoiet  find 
no  pl;v?e  with  her.  The  sp.rit  of 
impatience  has  troubkd  the  waters 
which  the  an^el  of  peace  is  never 
invited  to  quell. 

Love  is  the  domain  which  specially 
belongs  to  woman,  over  which  she 
rales  with  undisputed  sway.  It  is 
her  peculi^  privilege  and  province 
to  awaken  it,  as  well  as  to  lavish 
and  bestow  it.  Yet  there  is  a  teoa- 
per  and  disposition,  which  might 
almost  be  called  a  vice,  that  springs 
from  love  and  keeps  close  by  its 
side.  If  pity  is  ak  n  to  love,  jealousy 
is  its  offspring,  taming  '  love  divine 
to  joyless  dread,'  just  as  ashes  are 
produced  by  tire.  It  is  aflirmed  by 
some  that  there  can  be  no  true  love 
without  jealousy.  This  is  true  in  a 
certain  sense.  It  would  t-e  impos- 
sible to  love  another  and  to  he  at 
the  same  time  indifferent  to  his  or 
her  infidelity  or  neglect;  but  it  is 
not  true  in  the  sense  in  which  it  is 
often  urged  as  the  plea  for  absurd 
and  groundless  jealousies.  It  often 
happens  that  the  most  trivial  and 
inno'i'ent  incidents  are  distorted  into 
misdemeanours  and  offences  against 
the  law  of  love  by  those  who  are 
always  on  the  look-out  for  grounds 
of  jealousy ;  and  the  commonest 
courtesies  of  life  are  misconstrued 
and  suspected  of  evil,  till  society 
itself  is  viewed  as  one  vast  con- 
spiracy against  their  happiness.  It 
causes  great  and  needless  suffering, 
and  not  unfrequently  brings  about 
the  Very  evil  which  is  so  much 
drea<led. 

Women  who  talk  and  women  who 
love  to  manage  are  among  those 
who  have  brought  discre<iit  upon 
wrwnanVjn.r     These  are  they  who 


never  can  undertake  tl  e  smallest 
thing  without  a  considerable  amount 
of  talk.  Everythmg  must  be  dis- 
cusse<>  over  and  over  again,  not  for 
the  sake  of  prudence,  that  all  sides 
and  aspects  of  the  same  subject  may 
be  duly  considered,  but  for  the 
mere  love  of  talking;  and  thus  the 
boundaries  of  truth  and  falsehood 
are  not  always  as  carefully  preserved 
as  they  might  l^.  Mi&takes  are 
made;  exaggeration  obscures  the 
truth ;  no  watch  is  set  on  the  lips, 
and  words  are  used  more  with  re- 
ference to  the  entertainment  they 
are  meant  to  afford  than  to  truth. 

The  managing  woman  always 
occupies  herself  in  setting  her  neigh- 
bour "s  house  in  order.  She  is  up  to 
any  emergency,  is  ever  ready  with  a 
suggestion  and  a  plan,  and  O'lnally 
reatly  to  take  offence  if  her  advice 
is  cot  followed.  She  criticises,  dis- 
cusses, prop<:)ses,  and  advises.  She 
is  the  bane  of  young  newly-married 
people,  who,  diffident  of  their  own 
powers  and  resources,  are  too  ready 
to  take  the  managing  woman  at  her 
own  value  and  listen  to  her  counsels. 

The  ways  of  womankind  are  mani- 
fold, and  if  some  of  their  peculiari- 
ties are  less  p!e;ising  than  others,  or 
are  fraught  with  danger  to  our 
peace  and  happiness,  it  cannot  he 
deniei  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
they  are  our  light  and  solace.  Al- 
most all  we  know  of  virtue  and 
religion  we  have  learned  from 
woman.  Our  greatest  happiness  has 
come  from  her.  '  Without  her  the 
two  extremities  of  this  life  wcmld  lie 
destitute  of  succour,  and  the  middle 
be  devoid  of  pleasure.' 

*  A  crearare  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  bDuun  aiture's  (LiUj  ftxxl. 
For  tnuiiient  sorrow's  simpie  wiles 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisaes,  tears  and  smiled 

•  •  •  • 

A  perfect  woman,  n'^bly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort  and  commjod, 
\a<l  jet  a  iplrit  Uill  and  bright. 
With  som^ihiog  ot  aa  angel  lighL* 


Q^'^^ 


199 


ETIQUETTES  OF  GEIEF. 


rpHERE  is  nothing  in  which  pecu- 
X  liarities  and  differences  of  cha- 
racter sliow  themselves  more  strik- 
ingly than  in  the  variety  of  ways  in 
which  people  take  their  griefs.  By 
griefs,  we  mean  those  sorrows  which 
are  the  result  of  some  bereavement. 
There  is  no  one  whose  heart  is  so 
dead  to  all  regard  for  others,  or  so 
absorbed  by  self-love,  that  there  is 
not  some  one  object  the  loss  of  which 
would  plunge  him  into  the  most 
profound  grief.  Every  one  has  his 
tender  side,  as  well  as  his  weak 
point.  Some  possess  a  greater  num- 
ber of  interests  than  others,  but 
every  one  has  something,  a  husband, 
a  wife,  a  child,  or  a  friend  which 
occupies  his  thoughts  and  care,  the 
presence  or  loss  of  which  makes  life 
a  pleasui'e  or  a  blank.  It  is  quite 
true  that  '  the  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness,'  and  that  no  one  can 
properly  estimate  the  trials  of  his 
neighbour,  or  calculate  beforehand 
how  any  one  will  conduct  himself 
under  affliction.  You  cannot  argue 
upon  it,  nor  safely  draw  any  in- 
ferences on  the  subject.  It  is  one  of 
the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart 
which  no  one  can  solve,  and,  being 
so,  it  "is  iis  unfair  as  it  is  narrow- 
minded  to  say  that  this  or  that 
person  does  not  feel  so  strongly  as 
another  because  his  conduct  or  ex- 
pression does  not  tally  with  certain 
laws  or  rules  which  we  may  have 
chosen  to  lay  dowu  on  the  matter. 
It  is  quite  possible  to  argue  both 
ways  on  a  subject  of  this  kind  ;  but 
it  is  not  safe  to  pronounce  upon 
any  one  as  really  deficient  iu  feeling 
because  he  does  not  act  according  to 
GUI'  notions  of  the  way  in  which  we 
beUeve  that  we  should  ourselves  act 
under  similar  circimistances.  We 
are  not  lawgivers,  and  have  no  right 
to  lay  down  rults  for  others  in  such 
matters,  esi^ecially  as  they  are  be- 
yond the  reach  of  any  law. 

A  great  grief  often  changes  the 
character  so  wonderfully  that  we 
are  not  able  to  recognize  it  again. 
Like  a  veil,  it  hides  from  our 
sight  the  expression  with  \eh;ch 
we  have  grown  lamiliar  and  are 
wont  to  look  lor ;  or,  like  blindness, 


it  takes  the  light  out  of  the  eyes 
that  used  to  shine  brightly  upon  us. 
We  have  known  instances  of  per- 
sons who  were  the  gayest  of  the 
gay,  on  whom  the  ordinary  trials  of 
life  could  make  no  impre>sion ;  who 
have  seemed  to  live  in  the  present, 
and  to  bo  the  life  of  the  circle  in 
which  they  moved ;  who  had  no 
care,  no  thought  for  the  morrow; 
apparently  without  any  special  in- 
terests, because  the  whole  world 
was  to  them  as  an  instriimeut  of 
sweet  music,  which  was  always 
ready  to  respond  to  their  slightest 
touch,  and  about  whom  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  predicate  what 
would  or  would  not  touch  them. 
We  have  known  such  struck  down 
by  an  overwhelming  grief.  Death 
laid  his  hand  on  some  treasure  which 
they  scarcely  knew  how  much  they 
prized,  and  of  which  they  always 
felt  secure,  because  it  was  always 
there ;  the  reaper  came  and  carried 
off  the  flower  they  loved,  and  in  a 
moment  the  heart  was  frozen,  ice- 
bound with  grief.  The  sunshine 
had  gone  out  of  their  lives,  and  had 
left  them  to  grope  their  way  in  the 
darkness.  From  that  moment  they 
were  changed,  transformed  almost 
beyond  the  power  of  recognition. 

Others,  again,  have  lived  for  years 
in  the  selfish  enjoyment  of  the  bless- 
ings which  surrounded  them,  have 
culpably  neglected  those  who  have 
been  the  chief  ministers  to  their 
comfort,  treating  them  with  selfish 
indifference,  and  showing  but  little, 
if  any,  regard  for  their  happiness ; 
and  when  death  has  deprived  them 
of  the  companionship  of  one  whose 
unselfish,  unwearied,  and  patient 
love  chiefly  conduced  to  their  com- 
fort, they  have  bewailed  their  loss 
in  ceaseless  tears,  and  have  ex- 
hibited the  most  overwhelming 
sense  of  their  bereavement,  and 
have  quite  taken  the  world  by  sur- 
prise at  their  poignant  grief,  be- 
tokening an  afiection  for  which  no 
one  gave  them  credit.  There  have 
been  men  of  great  reserve  who  feel 
acutely,  but  the  outward  signs  of 
whose  joys  and  sorrows  do  not  lie 
on  the  siu'iace.     No  one  supposes 


200 


Eliquettes  of  Orief. 


tlioni  to  be  pnpiMo  of  any  pront  Pon- 
piMlity,  and  .\Lt  tiny  siilTcr  acutely; 
}:i  iff  gnaws  into  tlit-ir  hearts  ;  tlioy 
go  ou  tlitir  way  silently  but  dte])ly 
mourning?  over  the  graves  of  tlieir 
dead.  Kven  thoy  who  liave  lx;cn 
exceedingly  deuionstrative  in  their 
afl'ectiou  towards  a  lieloved  object 
will  Roiuetimes  occasion  tlio  greatest 
surprise  to  their  friends  by  the 
manner  in  which  tliey  l)ehave  \uider 
affliction.  They  will  pjicak  almost 
lightly  of  the  dea(l ;  will  comment 
upon  the  last  moments  ;  repeat  over 
a^'ain  and  again  the  last  words ;  de- 
scribe tlie  last  looks  ;  and  even  dis- 
cuss the  apjiearance  of  the  body  as 
it  lies  sliroiided  in  its  coIMd.  They 
will  speak  of  themselves  as '  crushed,' 
'annihilated,' and  'desolate"  intones 
and  accents  inconsistent  with  such 
language.  They  will  take  the  great- 
est personal  interest  in  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  funeral ;  will  act  as  a 
kind  of  ma^^tt^r  of  the  ceremonies,  or 
chief  undertaker;  or  will  be  strict 
in  their  inquiry  how  everything 
went  off;  and  will  demand  the  most 
exact  ami  detailed  account  of  the 
proceedings  of  the  day,  and  the  re- 
marks that  Were  made ;  and  will 
take  an  evident  pride  in  the  respect 
that  may  have  l)een  paid  to  the 
memory  of  the  deceased. 

Others,  again,  who  have  seemed 
to  live  only  in  the  presence  of  some 
lieloved  one,  will  shrink  from  the 
very  mention  of  the  name;  will 
never  suffer  it  to  be  uttered  in  their 
presence,  much  less  ever  allow  it  to 
escape  their  own  lips.  It  is  almost 
as  if  some  dis<,'race  were  attached  to 
it,  a«  if  pometiu'ng  of  dishonour  and 
shamo  were  as'-oeiated  with  it.  It 
is  foldrd  up  in  the  past,  never  to  bo 
unfolded  again ;  or  erased,  as  if  a 
sponge  had  l>een  taken  to  blot  out 
the  name  for  ever.  And  yet  it  is 
not  really  forgotten.  The  Iteloved 
natne  is  enshrined  in  the  heart, 
treasured  up  there  like  withereci 
flowers  within  the  leaves  of  some 
precious  l)ook,  or  like  the  relics 
which  the  devout  pilgrim  honours. 
There  are  they  al.so  whose  love  is 
U-yond  all  disjxite,  wlu)  take  an  en- 
tirely opfK)site  line,  and  can  talk  of 
nothing  else.  It  is  the  unvarying 
theme  of  their  conversation  and 
their    letters.      If  any  attempt  is 


made  to  divert  the  thought  into 
some  other  channel  bearing  more 
upon  daily  life  and  the  blessings 
that  remain,  tliey  ingeniou.sly  manage 
to  make  them  drift  back  again  to 
the  subject  of  their  sorrow.  Every 
scrap  of  writing  is  produced,  to  l)e 
read  again  and  ag.nin;  every  inci- 
dent is  narrated  till  sympathy  is 
almost  worn  threadbare,  and  the 
over-indulged  grief  becomes  a  mono- 
mania. We  are  strangely-consti- 
tuted lieings,  often,  in  extremes, 
moved  in  various  ways  by  our  pas- 
sions and  aflV'ctions.  It  is  quite 
intelligible  that  a  violent  shock 
should,  for  a  time,  almost  unhinge 
the  mind,  and  drive  it  into  eccen- 
tricities; and  it  is,  therefore,  the 
more  unfair  to  judge  and  condemn 
hfir-shly  any  form  which  sorrow  may 
take  that  is  not  altogether  in  unison 
with  received  customs.  We  cannot 
grieve  by  rule  and  measure.  Small 
griffs  are  loud,  but  great  ones 
still. 

■  AriRry  hoa-i«  grieve  loudawliilo 
Broken  brarls  are  dumb  and  smile.' 

Laughter  com&s  not  from  profound 
joy,  nor  weei)ing  from  deep  sorrow. 
It  is  tnie  that  tears  and  sorrow  are 
frequent  companions,  but  rarely  in 
their  highest  exces.ses,  and  therefore 
there  is  nothing  more  fallacious 
than  the  outward  signs  of  sorrow. 
The  chances  are,  that  the  affliction 
which  shrinks  from  publicity,  seeks 
to  1)0  invisible,  and  avoiils  ceremony  ; 
is  more  true  and  deep  than  that 
which  tinds  its  solaci;  in  that  out- 
ward display  which  invites  the  com- 
ment of  the  world  at  large. 

It  always  npiieared  to  us  as  pecu- 
liarly hard  tliat  our  gracious  ()ueen 
was  at  one  time  censured  for  in- 
dulging her  sorrow.  If  any  one  had 
greater  cause  than  anothir  to  mourn, 
it  was  she.  Placed  by  Providence 
in  an  exalted  and  trying  position,  she 
needed  all  the  su|)]»ort  and  aid  tliat 
an  intelligent  mind  and  a  faithful, 
loyal,  and  loving  heart  (^ould  afford. 
No  sorrow,  caro,  or  anxii  ty  had 
hitherto  entered  her  home,  which 
was  the  very  t\pc  of  (Unnestic  fe- 
licity. Suddenly  the  greatest  of  all 
])nssibln  trials  lit^fell  )ier.  at  a  time 
when  the  agn  of  her  children  made 
a  father's  hand  and  counsel  all  the 


Etiquettes  of  Chrief. 


201 


more  necessary ;  and  who  could 
blame  her  that  she  did  not  mourn 
by  rule?  that  she  still  reveres  and 
honours  the  memory  of  one  for 
whom  the  whole  nation  wei^t  ? 
There  have  been  others  in  humbler 
rank,  no  doubt,  equally  sorely  tried, 
who  have  mourned  all  the  days  of 
their  life,  and  who  can  never  bring 
themselves  to  discard  the  symbols 
of  their  desolation,  or  to  return  to 
the  world  as  if  it  still  possessed  any 
charms  for  them.  They  prefer  the 
quiet  of  their  own  home  circle,  and 
no  one  questions  their  right  to  in- 
dulge their  preference ;  but  then  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  society 
has  no  direct  and  positive  claim 
upon  them.  It  is  one  of  the  penal- 
ties of  the  most  exalted  rank,  that 
they  who  occupy  it  must,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  put  a  restraint  upon 
their  natural  desire  for  privacy.  In 
her  gradual  approach  to  her  former 
life,  let  us  deal  gently  and  lovingly 
■with  our  Queen,  as  a  child  would 
towards  a  parent,  that  she  may 
know  that  we  understand  and  can 
appreciate  the  great  sacrifice  she  is 
making  of  herself  for  the  public 
good,  and  that  we  are  fully  sensible 
that  human  nature  is  the  same  in 
all — that  the  stricken  heart  of  both 
rich  and  poor  alike  need  repose  and 
time  to  recover  itself. 

There  is,  however,  one  aspect  of 
this  subject — the  expression  of  grief 
— with  which  we  confess  to  have 
very  little  patience.  We  allude  to 
certain  etiquettes  which,  in  many 
instances,  are  followed  to  an  absurd 
extent.  There  are  some  persons  in 
the  world  who  cannot  exist  without 
satisfying  themselves  that  all  they 
do  is  en  reyle.  We  have  known  in- 
stances in  which  when  the  death  of 
a  relation  has  been  announced,  for 
whom  the  survivors  had  no  feeling 
but  that  of  dislike,  that  they  think 
it  necessary  to  shut  themselves  up 
in  their  rooms,  as  if  they  were  over- 
whelmed with  affliction.  They  go 
through  the  farce  of  pretending  to 
a  sorrow  which  all  the  world  knows 
they  do  not  feel.  Heirs  who  never 
cared  for  those  from  whom  they 
inherit,  think  it  necessary  to  go 
through  certain  formalities.  A 
brother,  who  has  supplanted  us  in 
our  birthright,  or  in  the  affections 


of  some  one  on  whom  we  were  de- 
pendent, and  who  has  plotted  against 
us  to  his  own  advantage  and  our 
injury;  a  child,  whose  disobedience 
and  want  of  affection  has  been  the 
trial  and  torment  of  our  lives;  a 
mother,  who  has  forsaken  or  neg- 
lected her  children  ;  and  a  wife,  who 
has  been  the  bane  of  her  home,  can- 
not cause  the  same  sorrow  and  re- 
gret as  those  whose  faithfulness, 
tender  care,  dutifulness,  unselfish- 
ness, and  uprightness  have  endeared 
them  to  all  who  have  been  asso- 
ciated with  them.  And  yet  no  dis- 
tinction is  made ;  the  same  etiquettes 
are  observed,  the  same  retirement 
from  the  world,  the  same  expres- 
sions, the  same  language  is  adopted 
in  both  instances.  We  do  not,  of 
course,  refer  to  the  custom  of  wear- 
ing mourning,  which  is  a  rule  which 
cannot  be  dispensed  with ;  and, 
so  far,  etiquette  may  serve  us  in 
good  stead,  when  it  prevents  our 
proclaiming  too  plainly  to  the  world 
the  estimation  in  which  we  have 
held  our  deceased  relatives  and 
friends.  It  is  said  that  '  blood  is 
thicker  and  water,'  that  ties  of  re- 
latiouHhip  bind  more  strongly  than 
other  ties.  It  may  be  so  where  the 
mutual  obligations  of  relationship 
are  cheerfully  fulfilled,  but  certainly 
not  where  those  obligations  have 
been  neglected,  set  at  nought,  and 
contradicted  through  life. 

'  lo  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain  ;* 

and  ties  of  relationship  are  worse 
than  without  force,  when  all  the 
affection,  kindness,  and  considera- 
tion which  they  are  supposed  to 
represent,  are  not  only  wanting  but 
reversed. 

Two  rather  absurd  and  amusing 
instances  occur  to  us  connected  with 
the  subject  of  etiquettes  of  grief. 
One  was  that  of  a  parish  clerk,  who 
was  called  upon  to  take  part  in  the 
funeral  obsequies  of  one  of  our 
country  magnates.  The  clergyman, 
having  been  somewhat  disconcerted 
by  the  apparent  backwardness  of 
the  clerk  to  make  the  responses 
which,  when  he  did  make  them, 
were  not  in  his  usual  tone  and 
manner,  but  rather  as  if  he  were 
suffering  from  a  severe   cold,  in- 


202 


Etiquettes  of  Grief, 


qnireil,  after  tho  service  was  over, 
wlietlior  ho  was  ill.  Tlio  clerk  both 
looko'l  ai)(l  expressed  astouibhiiient 
nt  heinp;  so  iiiteiroj;atcHl.  Tlio 
clerj^yiiuin  expluiiied,  unci  added 
that  ho  was  afraid  ho  was  sulViring 
from  a  severe  eold.  The  elerk  in- 
stantly drew  down  tho  corners  of 
his  mouth,  rfiul  said,  in  tho  sixmo 
snufHiiip,  lachrymose  tone,  that  he 
was  not  ill,  Itnt  that  he  thought  it 
his  duty  to  apix.'ar  atTectal.  Tho 
other  was  that  of  a  lady  who  had 
recently  l)ec()me  a  widow.  She  had 
not  Ix-en  conspicuous  for  fidelity  or 
conjugal  atVLrtioii,  and,  when  she 
saw  some  of  her  huslund's  relatives 
for  the  first  time  after  his  death, 
and  observed,  or  thouglit  she  ob- 
served them  scanning,  with  looks 
of  disapprobation,  her  uncovered 
head,  tbrestalled  all  remonstrance 
by  saying,  with  a  sigh,  that  'dear 
Tom '  had  made  her  promise  she 
would  not  disfigure  herself  by 
wearing  that  hideous  head-dress 
called  a  widow's  cap;  'dear  Tom,' 
she  well  knew,  was  not  a  man  to 
know  or  trouble  himself  about  any 
woman's  dress  wlun  he  was  alive, 
and  it  was  not  likely  that  his  rest 
would  be  disturbed  by  the  thought 
that  his  lovely  widow  might  be  dis- 
figuring herself  by  wearing  the  sign 
of  her  widowliood. 

It  continually  happens,  during 
a  London  season,  that  a  wliole 
family  is  shut  out  from  society 
by  the  death  of  a  relative  for  whom 
they  never  cared,  and  whom  some 
of  them  never  beheld.  The  rulo 
oi  eti'pietto  has  enacted  that  no 
one  shall  nu'x  in  society  till  after 
a  certain  time  lias  elapsed  after  the 
death  of  a  relative,  and  a  kind  of 
graduated  sealo  has  been  fixed,  vary- 
ing according  to  the  degrees  of  rela- 
tionship. Any  infringement  of  this 
rule  is  severely  conunented  upon, 
and  the  transgreswjrsaredenoiuiced 
as  unfeeling,  indecent,  lieartless, 
and  many  other  tilings  l)esi(les.  A 
mother  who  lias  several  daughters 
to  dispose  of — or  perhaps  it  may 
be  only  ono,  but  that  one  on  the 
apparent  verge  of  a  jiroposal  from  a 
most  eligible  2>'(r(i—\H  sometimes 
suddenly  shut  out  from  society  by 
an  etiquette  which  demands  of  her 
a  retirement  from  tho  world  for  a 


season,  on  account  of  tho  death  of  a 
relation  for  whom  none  of  them  ever 
cared,  or  ha<l  any  reason  to  regret, 
and  slie  has  perhaps  to  iiear,  in  ad- 
dition, tho  uncertainty  whether  tho 
anxiously-expectetl  marriage  will 
ever  '  come  oft','  tho  course  of  true 
love  having  been  interrupted  at  a 
critical  moment.  Instances  might 
l)emultiplieil'/'/  uifviitum,  exposing 
both  tho  inconveniences  and  ab- 
surdities which  residt  from  a  com- 
pliance with  tho  rigorous  laws  of 
etii|uette.  There  are  people  who 
think  it  indecorous,  at  such  times, 
to  meet  the  ditVerent  members  of 
their  family  at  diimer,  but  manage 
to  get  over  their  grief  at  tea-time, 
and  have  little  coteries  in  their  bed- 
room or  sitting-room ;  or  who  think 
it  honouring  the  dead  to  darken 
ono  of  their  windows  for  a  twelve- 
month with  a  huge  unsightly  hatch- 
ment ;  and  who  consider  mutes,  and 
an  assemblage  of  mourning  coaches 
and  private  carriages,  indispensable 
appendages  of  grief.  The  custom 
of  ]ieople  sending  their  private 
carriages  closed,  as  their  represen- 
tatives, to  ft)llow  in  tho  train  of  a 
funeral  procession,  is  certainly  one  of 
the  strangest  imaginable.  In  fact, 
all  funerals  in  this  country  have 
a  somewhat  pagan  aspect,  owing  to 
the  power  of  etiquette,  which  has 
prescril)ed  what  shall  or  shall  not 
lie  done,  and  winch  scarcely  any  ono 
dares  to  resist.  When  tho  heart  is 
bowed  down  with  grief,  and  silently 
pleads  to  be  let  alone,  the  under- 
taker lias  it  all  his  own  way,  and 
hatbands  and  scarfs  of  silk  and 
crape  swell  the  amount  of  his  bill, 
and  help  to  make  tho  solemn  cere- 
mony a  profit  to  himself.  The 
clerk  gets  another  lireadth  for  his 
wife's  Sunday  gown,  and  tho  clergy- 
man's wife  or  daughter  a  new  silk 
apron. 

Tho  tradesman  complies  with  eti- 
quette and  puts  up  a  shutter  in 
honour  of  a  decea.sed  patron,  which 
also  serves  as  an  adverlisement  to 
the  living,  and  conciliates  the  sur- 
vivors. After  tho  lapse  of  a  certain 
time,  during  which  tho  relatives 
mourn,  or  are  supiwsed  to  mourn 
in  private  and  retiremc  nt,  cards  of 
thanks  for  kind  inquiries  are  sent 
out,  which  are  meant  to  express 


1  y  -'T"- -?-■>.,_   - 


n       1 
^    -    7 


M 

w 

o 

"'. 

a 

u 

o 

'^• 

01 

E-t 

ci 

•a 

W 

-= 

o 

lii 

if 

Is 

CO 

!;■ 

u 

C5  -=  ^ 

tH  r=  _- 

ii?  >  - 

:d  -  : 

a  :  I 


The  WJiile  Feather, 


203 


that  the  mourners  are  well  disposed 
to  other  society  tlian  their  own.  In 
short,  from  first  to  last,  etiquette 
has  prescribed,  with  a  surprising 
definiteness,  all  the  minutite  of  the 
symbols  and  expressions  of  grief; 
so  much  so  that  an  amusiog  anec- 
dote has  been  told,  perhaps  more 
ben  trovuto  than  true,  of  a  lady  who 
went  to  one  of  the  great  mourning 
warehouses  in  London,  and,  on 
mentioning  what  she  required,  was 
politely  requested  by  one  of  the 
shoi^men  to  go  further  on.  '  This, 
madam,  is  the  light  affliction  depart- 
ment; the  heavy  bereavement  is 
further  on.' 

The  result  of  all  this  system  of 
etiquette  is,  that,  while  invidious- 
ness  may  be  avoided,  there  is  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  unreality  under- 
lying the  whole  question.  A  com- 
bination of  friend  and  relation  is  of 
infinite  value ;  a  blessing  to  be 
prized,  and  to  be  bewailed  when 


lost;  but  it  is  possible  to  have  a 
friend  whose  love,  like  Jonathan's 
for  David,  surpassed  the  love  of 
women;  or  a  daughter-in-law  like 
Ruth,  whose  love  and  loyalty 
prompted  her  to  say  to  her  mother- 
in-law,  '  Where  thou  goest  I  will 
go ;  where  thou  diest  I  will  die,  and 
there  will  I  be  buried.  Thy  people 
shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God 
my  God.' 

No  outward  expressions  of  grief 
can  ever  sufficiently  represent  the 
sorrow  which  their  loss  must  occa- 
sion those  who  are  called  ujx)n  to 
bear  it,  and  who  are  proj^erly  sen- 
sible of  it.  It  is  when  a  deep  and 
overwhelming  sorrow  comes  upon 
us,  that  all  minor  considerations  are 
lost  sight  of.  The  heart  that  is 
really  stricken  has  neither  inclina- 
tion nor  time  to  dwell  upon  the 
host  of  little  things  which  occupy 
those  whose  griefs  are  only  skin- 
deep. 


THE    WHITE    FEATHEE. 


ing  in  her   lap. 


EADY,  Helen?' 
asked  perempto- 
rily, more  sua, 
Gertie  Fairfax, 
appearing,  para- 
sol-whip in  hand, 
at  one  of  the  open 
windows  of  the 
long  drawing  - 
room  at  Laures- 
ton  one  afternoon, 
the  last  of  a  certain 
August.  '  Eeady, 
Helen?' 

A  fair  -  haired 
girl,  buried  in  a 
low,  soft  chair, 
day  -  dreaming, 
with  her  pretty 
gloved  hands  ly- 
answered    lazily. 


'Yes,  dear,'  and  rose,  not  too  wil- 
lingly. 

*  Then  come  along,'  said  Gertie ; 
'Damon  and  Pythias  are  wild  to 
start,  and  the  dog-cart  went  for  Dar 
half  an  hour  ago.  We  shall  be  too 
late  for  the  train,  after  all.  Come 
along,  dear  1' 


And,  thus  adjured,  Helen  Tre- 
herne  followed  her  cousin  out  of 
the  cool,  pleasant  room  on  to  the 
hot  asplialte  of  the  terrace,  and 
eventually  into  the  perfect  little 
pony-chaise  it  was  Gertie's  pride  to 
call  her  own. 

'  That'll  do,  Drake,'  Miss  Fairfax 
said,  presently,  when  the  white 
dust-wrapper  had  been  settled  over 
her  own  skirt  and  her  companion's ; 
'that'll  do;  let  them  go  1' 

And  Drake  (a  tiny  Elzevir  groom, 
known  to  his  mistress's  intimates  as 
'  the  Childe ')  obeying,  the  impatient 
ponies  flung  themselves  with  a  jerk 
into  their  collars,  and  started  off  at 
a  hand-gallop  down  the  avenue  al- 
most before  *  the  Childe  '  cotild 
swing  himself  into  his  perch  behind. 
'  They're  awfully  fresh,  Nell !'  said 
their  delighted  mistress,  as  soberly 
as  she  could,  while  the  Jouvin's 
sixes  on  her  firm  little  hands,  that 
controlled  so  skilfully  the  vagaries 
of  those  wilful  pets,  were  sorely 
strained  and  tried  in  the  endeavour 
to  keep  the  said  pets  straight  now 
as   they  rushed   past  the   lodge; 


204 


The  Wlitte  Feather. 


"they're  nwfnlly  fresh!  It's  lucky 
they  know  wo  were  coming,  and 
kept  tho  gates  ojK-n,  isn't  it  ?  I 
tliiiik  we  f^hall  get  to  BatUlinglty 
before  Dar,  after  all.  Gently, 
Daiuon!  Quiet,  sir!'  as  the  olF 
thoroughbred  tried  to  break  into  a 
Ciinter  again  on  the  smooth  high 
road,  and  tho  congenial  I'ythias,  oa 
the  near  side,  seemed  quite  ready  to 
follow  his  example.  'There!  that's 
beautitul!  Aren't  they  darlings, 
Helen  ?' 

'Dears!'  assented  !Miss  Treherne ; 
'  but  just  a  little  too  much  for  you 
at  times,  I  think,  Grertie.' 

'  Nonsense !  they've  never  got  out 
of  my  hand  once  since  Dar  gave 
them  to  me.  Why,  ho  chose  tbem 
for  me  himself,  on  purpose  for  my 
own  driving,  or  mamma  wonid 
never  trust  me  with  only  "  the 
Chiide,"  who  is  only  ornamental, 
you  know.  I  say,  Nell,  I'm  so  glad 
Dar  is  coming.  This  is  the  last  we 
shall  see  of  him.  His  leave's  up  in 
December,  and  the  regiment  isn't  to 
come  home  for  goodness  knows  how 
long.' 

'  Will  Dar  go  back  to  India,  then?' 
Mi.ss  Treherne  asked. 

'  I'm  afraid  so !'  Gertie  sighed. 
'  I  wish  he  wouldn't.  So  does 
mamma.  She  wants  him  to  marry 
and  Eottle  down  with  us  at  Lau- 
reston.' 

'  And  Dar  declines  ?' 

'  So  it  appears.  lie  always  laughs 
in  that  provoking  way  of  his  at  the 
notion  of  his  ever  being  seriously 
ejirh,  you  know;  says  he  should 
tiro  of  any  woman  in  a  week,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  The  fact  is,' 
Gertie  added,  after  a  pause,  '  in  his 
quiet,  "  dangurouij"  way,  Mr.  Dar  is 
a  frightful  flirt;  and  he's  been  so 
spoiled  tliat  I  don't  think  he  is 
likely  to  give  me  a  sister-in-law  yet 
awhile.  This  last  s^eison  he  was 
au£  2>t^('^s  s'llhs  with  Flora  Iloddes- 
don.  You  know  the  Ibjddesdons — 
up  yonder  at  Tho  Tlaco.  And  I 
fancy  Flora  liked  him.  As,  indeed,* 
remarkwJ,  t'«  jxu-mtlihf,  the  partial 
sister,  '  most  women  clo  somehow, 
when  he  means  they  shouM.  And 
we  thought  bo  really  did  mean 
Bomething.  Hut  Dar  went  off 
quietly  one  morning  to  T'aden,  or 
fcomewhcro,  and  nothing  came  of  it 


I  think  mamma  would  quite  ap- 
prove of  Flora ;  and  jjerhaps  now, 
when  they  meet — but  one  never 
knows  what  to  make  of  Dai*.  He 
takes  everything  so  coolly;  though 
no  one  can  be  more  wiiming  when 
he  chooses.  Yere  Bra'iazon  says 
he's  wi)rs]ii])ped  in  the  legiinent.' 

'And  who  is  Yere  Brabazon?'  in- 
quired Helen. 

'Oh!  didn't  I  tell  you?'  Gertie 
said,  looking  straight  forward  be- 
tween the  olT-pony's  ears ;  '  he's  a 
friend  of  Dar's,  in  tho  same  regi- 
ment. Dar  saved  his  life  in  India. 
Tliey  came  home  on  leave  together, 
an<l  wo  met  him  in  Lorn  Ion.  He 
follows  Dar  about  everywhere' 

'  7jV//.s  .'  will  ho  follow  his  pre- 
server down  here  ?' 

'  I'm  sure  1  don't  know.  I  believe 
mamma  asked  him.  She  took  rather 
a  fancy  to  him.' 

'And  is  he  a  "cool  captain," 
too?' 

'  No ;  he's  only  a  sub.  And  he 
doesn't  like  Dar's  line  at  all,  though 
he  looks  up  to  him  innnen.selv. 
They  call  him  "  Hebe"  in  tho  regi- 
ment, because  he  was  quite  a  child 
when  he  joined,  and  has  yellow  hair 
and  a  face  that  would  be  like  a 
girl's  if  it  weren't  for  his  moustache 
and  the  Indian  bronze  on  it.  But 
he  behaved  sjjlcndidly,  Dar  says,  in 
that  horrible  mutiny!'  Gertie  went 
on,  her  pale,  delicate  little  face 
lighting  up  as  she  spoke — '  splen- 
didly! and  bore  all  the  hardship 
and  suffering  as  carelessly  as  the 
oldest  soldier  there.  And  then  he 
was  awfully  wounded,  too,  poor 
fellow!  And  ho  would  have  been 
killed  but  for  Dar.' 

'Altogether,  "Hebe"  is  rather 
interesting?' 

'Weil,  yes,'  Gertie  responded, 
laughing,  but  with  the  flush  on  her 
cheek  still. 

'And  Dar  saved  his  life!  How 
was  that?'  Miss  Treherne  ](ur,sued. 

'  Well,  you  know,'  Gertie  an- 
swered, 'neither  of  them  would  say 
much  about  it.  But  he,  Mr.  i'ra- 
bazon,  told  me  that  Dar  swam  his 
horse  into  a  river  under  a  heavy  fire, 
and  helped  him  to  the  bank,  when 
ho  ha<l  l)cen  hit,  and  was  just  falling 
from  his  saddle.  Ho  says  nothing 
but  Dar's  pluck  and  coolness  saved 


Tlie  While  Feather. 


206 


them  both,  and  that  Dar  onpht  to 
have  the  V.  C.  lie's  very  quiet  and 
gentle,  and  at  tirst  I  thouglit  ahuost 
ladyhkc  in  liis  manner.  I  suppose 
he  hasn't  got  strong  again  yet;  but 
he  grew  quite  excited  and  eloquent 
when  he  talked  about  "  the  Don's  '' 
(they  call  Dar  "  the  Don,"  yon  know) 
good-nature  in  coming  in  after  him. 
"  I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me, 
Miss  Fairfax,"  he  said  to  me;  "I 
was  getting  dizzy  and  confused,  for 
I'd  been  rather  badly  hit,  and 
couldn't  head  old  Mustapha,  my 
charger,  for  the  bank,  as  I  ought  to 
have  done,  and  we  began  going 
down  stream,  while  the  niggers  were 
taking  pot-shots  at  us  quite  com- 
fortably from  their  cover.  I  felt  I 
should  roll  out  of  my  saddle  in  an- 
other minute,  when  I  heard  '  the 
Don's'  voice  close  beside  me,  and 
then  I  knew  it  would  be  all  right. 
He  brought  Mustapha  and  me  out 
of  it,  and  never  got  touched  him- 
self, though  the  Pandies  blazed 
away  harder  than  ever  all  the  time, 
and  he  was  covering  me.  It  was 
the  noblest  thing  that  ever  was 
done,  by  Jove  !  it  was." ' 

'  So  it  was !'  Miss  Treherne  said, 
with  a  light  in  her  own  violet  eye, 
when  Gertie  had  finished  her  ex- 
tract from  '  Hebe's'  narrative;  '  and 
you  quote  Mr.  Brabazon  admirably, 
dear!'  she  added. 

'  Absurd !'  the  other  laughed,  ad- 
ministering rather  uncalled-for  pun- 
ishment to  Damon  for  breaking  the 
trot.  And  neither  spoke  again  till 
they  were  driving  through  the  High 
Street  at  Baddingley. 

The  cousins  were  more  like  sis- 
ters than  some  sisters  are  I  wot  of. 
The  same  age  to  a  day,  they  had 
been  nearly  always  together  since 
they  left  their  Paris  pension,  and 
never  separated  for  so  long  a  time 
before  as  they  had  done  this  year, 
when  Gertie  Fairfax  had  been  up  to 
London  for  her  presentation,  and 
had  been  entered  to  run  the  gaunt- 
let of  her  first  season. 

Helen  Treherne's  father,  the  dean, 
a  courtly,  clerical  grand  seigneur, 
who  grew  every  year  more  loth  to 
leave  the  dignified  ease  and  repose 
of  the  Cathedral  Close,  and  to  miss 
his  darling's  fair  face  and  brighten- 
ing presence  from  his  side  for  very 


long,  had  put  off  that  ordeal  in  her 
case  till  another  year. 

Even  as  it  was,  when  she  came 
back  to  Laurcston,  Gertie  had  to 
take  dean  and  deanery  by  storm, 
and  fight  a  hardish  battle,  before 
she  could  carry  off  his  sunshine  (as 
the  old  man  loved  to  call  his  daugh- 
ter) for  a  brief  visit.  But  Miss 
Fairfax  had  a  knack  of  getting  her 
own  way  in  most  things,  and  the 
dean  had  to  yield,  and  did. 

While  the  ponies  were  trotting  up 
the  sharp  rise  which  leads  to  Bad- 
dingley Station,  the  express,  five 
miles  off,  was  rushing  full  swing 
down  the  line  bound  lor  the  same 
goal. 

Fast  as  they  were  going,  and  ad- 
mirably as  they  have  kept  time  all 
the  way,  one  of  its  passengers,  loung- 
ing on  his  cushions  over  '  Punch ' 
and  a  regalia,  was  beginning  to  wax 
impatient. 

'Deuced  slow  work  this,  aint  it, 
"Hebe?"'  Daryl  Fairfax  said  at 
last  to  his  companion,  a  slight,  tall, 
fair-haired  Light  Dragoon,  with  a 
bronzed  face  and  a  yellow  mous- 
tache, who  was  sucking  away  at  a 
facsimile  of  the  other's  cabana. 
'  We  ought  to  be  there  by  now.' 

'  Don't  kno.w.  .  .about  slow,  you 
know,'  Vere  Brabazon  responded ; 
'  done  the  last  six  miles  in  seven 
minutes  and  a  quarter  by  my  watch. 
Whereabouts  are  we?  You  ought 
to  know,  Dar.' 

Daryl  Fairfax  picked  himself  up, 
and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

'  All  right !'  he  said ; '  there's  Bad- 
dingley spire.  And  there's  the 
whistle !'  he  added,  the  next  mo- 
ment, as  the  engine  began  to  shriek 
on  nearing  the  junction. 

'  Get  yourself  together,  "  Hebe," 
and  hand  us  over  that  gun-case. 
Can't  afford  to  trust  that  to  any  one 
btit  myself.  Here  we  are !'  And 
creaking,  and  groaning,  and  hissing, 
the  express  ran  into  the  station. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  people  on 
the  platform  ;  but  for  all  the  noise 
and  confusion  of  yelling  porters, 
struggling  passengers,  gaping,  help- 
less bucolics,  and  the  rest,  Vere 
Brabazon  managed  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  a  face  which  had  been  haunting 
him  all  the  journey  down,  and  for 
many  a  long  day  before. 


206 


Vie  White  Feather. 


'  I  Fny,  Don,'  he  wiid,  flinging 
Qwny  his  oicar, '  tlifie  f-lic  is  !' 

'  Is  slie  ?'  respoDcled  Dar,  vith 
a  nip-strap  between  his  teeth. 
'Who?' 

'  Your  sister.* 

'IKnco  sho  is!'  ohpcrved  ^liss 
Fairfax's  lirotlicr.  'Why,  I  tokl 
tliem  to  send  over  the  dog-cart  for 
ns.  At  Kiist,  yon  know,  I  don't 
tliink  I  said  am  thing  al>out  your 
coming,  \'erc.  I  suppose  she's 
come  to  meet  me  with  the  ponies. 
Here,  guard !'  And  that  polite  of- 
ficial came  hurrying  np  to  nnlock 
tlie  door.  '  Never  mind,'  Dar  went 
on,  when  the  two  were  on  the  plat- 
form, '  We'll  make  room  for  you 
somehow.  You  shall  have  "  the 
Childe's"  perch  behind,  if  Gertie's 
here  alone.     Come  along !' 

In  another  moment  they  had 
emerged  fro!u  the  ruck,  and  ]\Iiss 
Fairfax's  watchful  eyes  had  lighted 
on  them. 

'  There  they  arc,  Nell !'  she  said, 
suddenly.  'There's  Dar,  with  that 
gun-case  in  his  hand!' 

'And  "HelH;"  bringing  up  the 
rearV  whispered  Ilekn ;  for  the 
pair  were  clo.se  upon  them  now. 
'  The  soubriquet  suits  him  admi- 
rably, Gertie !' 

I5ut  Gei-tio  had  moved  off  to  wel- 
come her  brother,  dutifully. 

'  Dear  old  Dar !  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come !' 

'  lean  oblige,  petite!'  the  dear 
Dar  vouch.'^ared  to  answer;  'but  I 
say,  1  hope  you've  sent  something 
for  us  besides  your  pliaeton.  I've 
brou^'ht  Vere  down  with  me.' 

'Oh,  indeed,'  Gertie  said,  becom- 
ing suddenly  aware  of  the  existence 
of  such  an  individual.  'How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Drabazon  ?' 

^Ir.  Itiabazon,  who  had  been 
standing  silently  by,  pulling  his 
yellow  moustache,  and  looking 
(Helen  thought)  certainly  very 
'  ladyUke  '  and  languid,  brightened 
np  imrneiliately,  and  seemed  ])er- 
fectly  hapjiy  when  his  lingers 
clo.scd  round  the  little  hand  Gertie 
gave  him. 

'There's  the  dog-cart  for  you, 
Dar,'  his  sister  .said,  jire.sently ;  'I'm 
afraid  Helen  and  I  and  '  the  Childe  ' 
quite  til!  the  phaeton,  you  know.' 

' "  Helen," '  Dar  said— he  had  been 


wondering  for  the  last  thirty  seconds 
wlio  the  blonde-haired  girl  with  the 
white  feather  in  her  hat  might  be 
— '  "  Helen,"  not  Cousin  Helen.' 

'Why  not?'  Cousin  Helen  asked, 
witli  a  smile  and  little  blush,  as  she 
put  out  her  hand  to  m(>et  Dar's. 

'  On  the  contrary,'  that  individual 
responded,  in  somewhat  involved 
speech;  'on  the  contrary,  every 
reason  why.  Excejjt  my  failing  to 
recognize  you,  as  I  ought  to  have 
done,  at  once.  It's— how  many 
years— since  wo  saw  each  other 
last  ?    There  is  that  excuse  for  me.' 

And  tliey  made  their  way  out  of 
the  station  by  degrees  — Helen  and 
Dar,  followed  by  Gertie  and  Vcro 
Brabazon— till  they  came  to  where 
'the  Childe'  stood  at  the  ponies' 
heads,  and  conversed  affably  on  the 
chances  of  the  coming  '  Cambridge- 
shire,' with  the  groom  who  had 
brought  over  the  dog-cart. 

Wliile  the  porters  were  stowing 
gun-cases  an((  dressing-bags,  and 
other  light  luggage  into  its  interior, 
the  two  men  stood  one  on  either 
side  of  the  phaeton  when  the  girls 
were  seated,  talking  pleasantly. 

Pleasantly,  because  Vere  and 
Gertie  Fairfax  were  beginning  to 
understand  each  other;  ami  because 
'  the  Don '  was  by  no  means  sorry 
to  discover  that  'the  blonde-haired 
girl '  was  Cousin  Helen. 

Little  by  little  he  got  to  identify 
her  with  a  pet  of  his  some  ten  years 
ago,  a  plucky  little  woman  of  eight, 
whom  he  had  taught  to  sit  her  first 
pony,  and  who  had  wept  such  pas- 
.sioiiate  tears  one  night  when  a  big 
oflicial  letter  had  come  to  Laureston, 
and  Cornet  Fairfax  of  'Ours'  was 
ordered  to  embark  for  India  and 
active  service  forthwith. 

Ho  remembered,  too,  how  they 
had  drunk  a  l)umper  after  dinner 
to  his  I'lit  voyiKji — how  tlio  old 
Squire,  the  kind,  generous  governor 
lie  was  never  to  see  again,  had 
pledged  him  with  a  somewhat  shak- 
inc;  voice  from  the  luud  of  the  long 
table  in  the  oak  dining  room,  and 
prayed  God  bless  his  only  .son  —how 
Cousin  Helen  had  tnrnt,!  white  in 
her  muslin  rolx's,  and  had  slipped 
from  her  chair  and  from  the  room; 
and  how  ho  had  discovered  her,  half 
an    hour   afterwards,  in  the  dark 


The  Wiite  Feather, 


207 


library   alone,  sohbing   as  though 
her  heart  would  bi'cak. 

He  had  called  her  La  Fee  Blanche 
in  the  old  time,  she  was  so  delicately 
fair  and  fragile  looking.  Watching 
her  face  now,  as  it  was  lifted  to  his, 
and  as  the  child's  smile  seemed  to 
come  again  upon  the  lips,  and  the 
old,  half-grave,  half-laughing  look 
to  fill  the  violet  eyes,  '  the  Don '  was, 
certes,  not  displeased  to  discover 
that  time  had  only  ripened  that 
early  promise,  and  that  Cousin  Helen 
was  very  good  to  look  upon,  and  La 
Fee  Blanche  still. 

So  there  was  a  happy  ten  rainiitcs' 
talk.  For  Gertie  was  at  least  that 
time  in  finding  out  that  her  pets 
were  waxing  wrath  at  the  delay, 
and  taxing  'the  Childe's'  jwwers  of 
soothing  and  intimidation  to  the 
uttermost. 

As  the  })haeton  drove  off  at  last, 
Gertie  nodding  saucily  in  adieu,  and 
promising  to  announce  their  ap- 
proach to  '  my  lady '  at  Laureston, 
Dar  stood  watching  the  white  feather 
in  Helen's  hat  till  they  had  turned 
the  corner,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar 
the  while",  and  thinking  how  well 
that  velvet  toque  with  its  long 
streamers  became  her. 

'Flora  never  looked  well  in  a 
hat,'  he  thought,  aloud  and  ungrate- 
lully,  '  and  she'd  never  the  sense  to 
discover  it.  Wonder  whether  she's 
down  here,  and  whether  she's  likely 
to  be  troublesome  if  she  is.' 

By-and-by  he  and  'Hebe'  were 
driving  towards  Laureston  in  the 
wake  of  Gertie's  phaeton,  which, 
however,  as  she  had  told  them,  they 
had  small  chance  of  overtaking. 

'  We'll  shoot  the  home  covers  to- 
morrow, Yere,  I'm  thinking,'  Dar 
said,  as  they  went  along;  'I  hear 
uncommonly  good  reports  of  them.' 

'  All  right,'  murmured  '  Hebe,' 
lazily ;  ' there  wont  be  so  much 
tramping  to  do.  That  floors  me 
utterly,  you  know.' 

'  Lazy  beggar  jou  are !  Ton 
mean  to  shut  up  by  lunch-time. 
Well,  we'll  send  you  back  in  Gertie's 
charge  if  yon  do.  Slie  always  drives 
to  mtiet  us  with  the?  vivrcs  when  we 
shoot  near  home,  and  lunches  with 
us.  So  there'll  be  afield  ambulance 
ready  for  you  if  you  get  put  Jwrs- 
de-combat.^ 


'  Capital  arrangement,'  ofsc ntcd 
Vero,  making  up  his  mind  to  bo 
utterly  exhausted  by  the  afternoon  ; 
'morning's  always  enough  for  me, 
you  know.  I  aint  so  enthusiastic 
as  some  follows  about  the  afternoon 
birds.' 

In  point  of  fact  'Hebe*  was  a 
good  deal  too  indolent  to  care  much 
for  any  sjoort  that  involved  long- 
protracted  physical  exertion,  and 
detested  walking  above  all  things. 
And  he  had  been  rather  dreading 
long  days  over  the  stubbles  and  the 
turnips  after  wild  coveys  without 
perhaps  a  glimpse  of  Gertie  Fairfax 
till  dinner-time. 

The  prospect  seemed  brichter 
now  after '  the  Don  s,'  his  liege  lord's, 
announcement, and  Vere pulled  away 
at  his  eternal  cabana  with  renewed 
energy. 

'  Yes,'  pursued  Dar,  still  busy 
with  his  programme  for  his  opening 
day, 'that  will  be  a  fair  morning's 
work.  Shoot  up  to  Thiekleton; 
lunch  in  the  Hoddesdons'  wood 
under  the  King  Oak;  meet  their 
keepers  there,  and  keep  the  outlying 
fields  for  the  afternoon.  That'll  do 
capitallv.' 

'  The  Hoddesdons  ?' '  Hebe '  asked. 
'  Do  they  live  about  here  ?' 

'There's  their  place,'  Dar  said, 
jerking  his  whip  towards  a  tall- 
chimneyed  edifice  on  a  rising  ground ; 
'  we've  just  passed  their  lodge-gates. 
Y^ou  know  'em,  don't  you  ?' 

'  Mademoiselle — tall,  dark  girl, 
with  good  eyes.     Yts,  I  know  her.' 

'Ah,  well,  you  know  all  that's 
necessary  if  you  know  Flora.  She 
rules,  you  know.  Ignores  Madame 
IMere  altogether,  except  as  a  chape- 
ron.' 

'  By  the  way,  Dar,  hadn't  you 
something  on  with  the  daughter 
this  season?  I  heard  something 
about  you  two.' 

'  My  dear  boy ;  no !  Flora  and  I 
are  very  good  friends,  I  believe. 
That's  all.  She's  not  the  sort  I 
should  ever  think  seriously  about. 
In  fact  I  never  met  a  woman  who 
was  yet.  Ours  is  a  very  platonic 
business,  and  I  mean  it  to  remain 
just  that.' 

'Tant  pis  pour  elle!'  thought 
'Hebe.'  'Shouldn't  like  a  platonic 
friendship,  that  was  never  to  be  any- 


203 


TJie  While  Feather. 


thinp  more,  to  exist  lietwcen  "  tlio 
Don  "  and  a  sister  of  niino,  if  I  liad 
one,  I  know.' 

Aiiil  tlun  lie  fell  to  tliiukinfralwut 
the  state  of  tliin;;s  botwten  liimscif 
aiiil  (iirtio  Fairfax,  ninl  to  wonder 
what  his  own  clianoes  were  in  tlic 
litlle  p.uno  lie  felt  it  would  he  bit- 
terly hard  to  pivo  up,  or  to  lose 
now.     His  eliaiices ! 

A  younper  son,  living,  he  couldn't 
tell  you  exactly  how,  on  his  younper 
sou's  portion  of  a  few  hundreds  ])lu8 
pay  and  a]Io\^ance<',  what  chance 
imd  ho  of  winiiin<^  a  dowered  belle 
like  (lertie  ? 

He  loved  licr,  poor  boy!  ho 
couldn't  help  tliat,  but,  he  doubted 
often  very  sorely,  in  his  odd  times 
of  retlcction,  whether  he  loved 
wi.<;ely. 

8he  might  like  hira  to  valse  with 
— 'Hobo'  knew  that,  despite  his 
indolence,  natural  and  acquired,  he 
could  steer  a  valseuse  tlirough  an 
ugly  crush,  or  swing  her  round  a 
crowtled  circle  as  few  of  the  Light 
Brigade  could  do— and  she  mightn't 
object  to  have  him  by  her  side  in 
her  morning  <"inter  in  the  Row,  and 
she  might  bow  and  smile  i)leasantly 
enough  to  him  when  he  dotfed  his 
hat  to  her  in  the  l!ing.  But  did 
she  i-eally  care  for  him?  Would 
she  listen  to  him  one  day  ?  Would 
his  love  win  her?  And  even  if  it 
did,  would  lur  people  let  her  fling 
herself  away  upon  a  penniless  sub, 
with  nothing  but  his  sabre  to  de- 
pend on  ? 

8(mietime9,  when  these  considera- 
tions and  doubts  presented  them- 
selves to  hira  very  strongly  and 
disaciretably,  poor  'Helie'  was  fain 
to  bite  his  jellow  moustache  sa- 
vagely ;  and,  groaning  in  the  spirit, 
to  wish  the  (ieuco  he  hadn't  applied 
for  that  confounded  sick-leave,  and 
almost  mak(?  up  his  mind  to  report 
himself  well  at  once,  and  rejoin 
'Ours 'that  winter  at  Amberabad, 
N.W.P. ;  and  then  find  a  dozen 
unanswerable  reasons  for  staying 
f)n,  and  hug  his  chains  the  closer, 
and  ask  for  that  extra  fast  dance, 
and,  perhaps,  while  the  Clicquot 
was  hissing  and  sparkling  in  his 
tumbler,  f)ersua<Io  liim.self  that  he 
really  hafl  some  chance  of  pulling 
off  the  race  after  all.    Going  to  bed, 


or  to  finish  the  night  at  the  Tlag, 
with  the  reculU'ctinn  of  Gertie's 
smilo  and  'good-night'  when  he 
had  put  her  into  the  carriage, 
haunting  liiiu  still,  and  with  a  lia]>j)y 
though  hazy  notion  that  '  it  would 
all  come  r  glit  somehow,  perhaps.' 

But  there  were  times  when  so- 
phistry of  this  sort  was  powerless 
to  soothe  him,  as  now,  And  so 
Yero  sat  liehind  his  big  cigar  an- 
swering such  observations  as  his 
coiu]v,uiion  vouchsafed  him  in  lan- 
guid monosyllables,  but  sorrowful 
at  heart,  and  inclined  to  curse  the 
folly  which  had  made  him  accept 
so  gratefully  J)ar's  invitation  to 
come  down  to  Laurestou  for  the 
first,  and  the  greater  folly  he  had 
committed  in  coming  down  to  play 
moth  to  the  dangerous  flame  that 
had  singetl  his  wings  desperately 
already.  And  yetci///wr.'  and  yet!  — 
She  had  looked  adorable  when  he 
saw  her  at  the  station.  She  had 
Welcomed  him  so  kindly  and  so 
frankly,  that  surely  he  would  have 
been  an  idiot  to  mi.-s  seeing  her, 
aid  the  rest  of  it. 

'Hebe's'  cogitations  described 
their  wonted  circle,  and  came  back 
to  their  old  starting-point  as  usual. 

By  that  time  they  were  driving 
up  the  avenue  at  Laureston.  As 
they  came  out  of  its  shadow  they 
saw  the  white  dresses  of  the  two 
girls  gleaming  on  the  terrace  ;  and, 
mounting  presently  the  broad,  white 
stone  stejis  that  led  up  from  the 
drive,  they  were  received  by  'my 
laily  '  in  person— an  honour  seldom 
accorded  by  that  tall,  stately  chate- 
laine to  any  but  the  son  she  wor- 
shipped. She  was  very  gracious  to 
her  son's  friend  too,  though. 

As  (Jcrtio  had  said,  'my  lady' 
seenif'd  to  have  taken  a  great  liking 
for  Vero-— for  Dar's  sake,  perhajis. 

The  two  girls  came  up,  and  they 
all  liiipered  in  the  sunlight  till  the 
dressiiig-iiell  rang. 

'Weil,  Helen,  and  what  do  you 
think  of  him  ?'  Gertie a'^ke<l,  coming 
into  her  cousin's  room  just  as  Pincot 
had  finished  coiling  the  fair  hair 
about  her  mistress's  shapely  little 
head,  and  had  been  dismissed. 
'  What  do  you  think  of  him 
now?' 

'  Think  of  whom  ?'  Miss  Treheme 


The  While  Featlier. 


209 


asked.  '"Hebe"?  I  think  he's 
very  nice,  dear.' 

'  I  don't  nicuu  him.  Dar.  Did 
you  remember  him  ?' 

'Perfectly.  He  hasn't  changed 
much.  Tiie  bronze,  and  that  liig 
black  moustache  alter  him  a  little; 
but  I  should  have  recognized  Dar's 
voice  and  manner  anywhere.' 

'  Yes.  They're  his  own,  certainly 
— Dar's  are.' 

'  Like  Mr.  Brabazon's.  '  Hebe '  is 
immensely  ladylike  for  all  his  yellow 
moustache,  Gertie,'  laughed  Helen; 
'  and  he's  very  pretty  too.' 

'Well,  he  can't  help  being  lady- 
like and  pretty,  you  know,'  Gertie 
responded.  '  Poor  boy !  he  is  quite 
a  child  still;  he  seemed  to  have 
something  on  his  mind  to-dny,  I 
thought.  He  was  looking  quite  ill 
again.' 

'  Been  sitting  up  too  late  at  the 
club,  and  smoking  too  many  cigar.s, 
perhaps,'  suggested  Helen;  '  he-il 
be  better  after  he's  been  at  Laures- 
ton  a  day  or  two,  I  dare  say.  Espe- 
cially if  you  take  him  in  hand, 
Gertie.' 

'  Oh,  Helen !' 

'J'ai  des  yeux  noir!  And  they 
tell  me  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  '  Hebe '  that  you  can't  cure, 
darling,— if  you  choose,  that  is. 
Do  you  mean  to  choose,  Gertie  ?' 

Miss  Fairfax  smiled,  and  shook 
her  head. 

'  It's  awfully  cool  of  you  to  talk 
like  that,  Nell,'  she  said ;  '  I've 
never  told  you ' 

'  What  need  was  there  to  tell  me, 
after  what  I  saw  just  now,  v/hen 
you  spoke  to  him  ?' 

'  And  what  did  you  see,  pray?' 

Miss  Treherne's  answer  was  no- 
thing more  intelligible  than  a  kiss. 
But  it  seemed  sufficient,  for  Gertie 
asked  no  more  questions,  and  the 
two  went  down  to  the  drawing-room 
together. 

Vera  was  there  before  them, 
lounging  over  the  piano  alone,  and 
twisting  about  the  leaves  of  a  i^ile 
of  music  upon  it. 

When  Dar  arrived  presently, 
Helen  was  playing  a  valse,  appa- 
rently for  her  own  and  sole  delec- 
tation, for  the  other  two  were  at  a 
distant  window;  Gertie  seated  on 
cushions  in    the  sill    thereof,  and 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  LXIII. 


'  Hebe  '  outside  on  the  terrace,  tid Ic- 
ing low-toned  talk  to  her— about 
the  sunset,  probably. 

'So  the  "Amaninthe"  is  a  pet 
valse  of  yours,  too,  Helen?'  Dar 
said,  crossing  at  once  to  the  jiiano. 

'  How  do  you  know?'  she  asked, 
without  stopping. 

'Easily:  you  play  it,  as  people 
ought  only  to  be  allowed  to  play 
that  valse,  perfectly.' 

'  Ergo,  it  is  my  i^et  ?' 

'Ergo,  you  understand  it,  and 
like  it — or  you  wouldn't  be  playiug 
it  to  youi'self.  And  as  very  few  of 
your  sex  are  content  with  merely 
"liking"  a  thing,  but  almost  in- 
variably end  by  "  loving"  it,  I  may 
fairly  conclude  you  love  the  "  Ama- 
ranthe  "  best.     So  do  I.' 

'  I  don't  know  whether  your  con- 
clusion's a  fair  one  or  not,'  Helen 
said,  finishing  with  a  rush  ;  '  it  hap- 
pens to  be  a  true  one  in  this  case, 
though.' 

And  then  she  fell  into  that 
'  loving  and  liking '  snare  he  had 
set  for  her ;  and  Dar  amused  him- 
self very  well  till  dinner. 

Duriug  which,  he,  seated  beside 
her,  talked  about  the  old  days  when 
she  was  La  Fee  Blanche,  in  white 
frocks  and  blue  ribands;  and  he 
'  Cousin  Dar,'  home  for  the  Eton 
holidays. 

Grown  harder  and  more  self-con- 
tained now,  as  was  but  natural ; 
but,  in  her  eyes,  but  little  altered. 
Miss  Treherne  thought,  as  he  oiDcned 
the  door  for  their  retreat  back  to 
the  drawing-room,  by-and-by,  on 
'  my  lady '  making  the  move.  Not 
quite  so  much  of  a  demigod,  either, 
as  he  had  been  once  in  her  childish 
eyes;  but,  all  the  same,  a  strong, 
straight,  stalwart,  soldier  cousin; 
none  the  worse  to  look  upon  because 
his  dark  face  was  bronzed  and  set, 
and  the  silky  down  on  his  npper  lip 
had  become  a  heavy  black  mous- 
tache, falling  over  it  like  a  wave. 

Altogether,  she  liked  the  present 
'  Cousin  Dar '  at  least  as  well  as  the 
former,  she  confessed  to  herself. 

And  then  she  remembered  his 
dictum  anent  feminine  'liking' 
again;  and  felt  rather  inclined  to 
be  angry  with  herself  for  remem- 
bering it. 

It  was   a   pleasant    evening  at 


in 


TJiP  While  Feather. 


LniiroRton,  llmt  of  '  tlio  Don's' 
arrival.  '  My  lady' too'v  her  coffto 
in  litr  peculiar  cliair,  in  a  certain 
recess  in  llic  J/'ncc  Drawing- room; 
nnd  Par  niado  her  liajtpy  by  sitting 
on  the  footstool  at  lier  feet,  and 
till  long  to  her  as  f>lic  best  loved  to 
hear  him  talk;  while  Gertie  and 
Helen  .'■nng  lialf-a-dozcn  duets,  and 
Vcrc  I'nibazon  was  on  duty  at  tho 
piano. 

Then  they  strolled  on  to  tho  ter- 
race in  the  moonlight,  '  my  lady  ' 
watching  them  from  her  sheltered 
nook.  And  '  Hebe'  seemed  to  fuid 
something  inspiiing  in  tho  poetry 
of  the  scene — it  was,  in  fact,  tho 
post-prandial  I'-urgnndy  which  had 
revived  his  ho]ics  and  quieted  his 
fears  and  misgivings— and  had  a 
pood  deal  to  .say  to  his  companion, 
which,  <ioubtles.s,  £lio  seriously  in- 
clined to  hear. 

Helen  found  a  garden-chair  a 
little  in  the  shadow,  and  sat  there 
with  the  moonlight  falling  on  her 
fair  hair  till  it  lo.ikc  1  a  lialo  about 
her  head,  haning  her  arm  on  tho 
broad  stone  balustrade. 

Tiie  odour  of  an  Havannah,  and 
Cousin  Dar's  step  beliind  her,  made 
her  look  round. 

'  I'm  going  to  shock  yonr  im- 
aginative tendencies  by  smoking  a 
cigar  out  licre,'  Dar's  voice  said. 
'  The  Madrc  wanted  me  to  send  you 
in  ;  she  says  tlie  terrace  is  too  cold 
for  you  to-m'ght;  but  I  promised 
you  should  run  no  risk,  if  you  liked 
the  moonliglit  better  than  the  lamp- 
light; and  EO  I've  brought  you 
this.' 

He  held  out  a  warm  violet-and- 
black  striped  maud  iis  lie  spoke— a 
wrapper  precious  in  the  ojes  of  tho 
frilleiir  Kast  Ii;dian,  ever  cynically 
distrustful  of  the  vagaries  of  an 
Engli.'^h  climate. 

'  J'or  meV  Helen  said:  'but  T 
don't  Nvant  it,  thank  you.' 

*  Grateful  1' 

'I  mean- it's  very  kind  of  you  to 
br^ng  it;  but  I'm  not  cold.' 

'The  Madre  wtnis  to  think  you 
ought  to  be,  anyhow  ;  you'd  better 
let  me  put  it  round  vou.' 

Which  he  did,  skilfully.  Then 
he  stood  beside  her,  leaning  against 
the  stonework  of  the  balustra'lo 
too,  and  Huiokcd  on  ir  sih  nco. 


'  What  a  lovely  n'ghf !'  Ilolcn 
said,  pi(  seutly. 

'lovely!'  'tho  Don'  assented, 
thinking  how  well  her  face,  with 
the  soft  sheen  njion  it,  came  out 
against  tho  dark  folds  of  the  plaid 
draped  nbovo  h- r  shoulders; 
'Luuveston  always  looks  its  best  by 
mor.iil'uht.' 

'So  I  think.' 

'Like  ]M(lrose,  you  know;  and, 
for  the  matter  of  tl)at,  bkc  most 
other  places  to  the  p  letic  eye.  That 
happens  to  bo  a  fraturc  I  don't 
possess;  but  this  licht  does  suit  all 
this  stonework.  I  nmember  think- 
ing that  night,  ten  years  ago— just 
such  a  night  as  this,  it  was — when 
I  was  turning  iny  back  on  it  to  join 
'Ours 'in  India,  that  I  had  never 
seen  the  o!d  ]ilacc  look  so  well.  Tho 
notion  that  I  might  never  see  it 
again  hail  something  to  do  with  my 
adun'ration,  I  dare  say  ;  but  I  recol- 
lect distinctly  noticing  tho  effect, 
and  admiring  it.' 

'  And  while  you  were  coolly  ad- 
miring the  effect,  we  were  all  sob- 
bing in  chorus  in  there,  in  the 
drawing-room!' 

'  You  mean  I  ought  to  have  been 
doing  tho  same  out  hero?  Do 
yon  give  us  your  tears,  then,  only 
«  chfrnje  lie  rrvinche  ?' 

'Grateful!'  she  said,  in  his  own 
tone. 

'  Not  so  ungrafi-'ful  as  you  fancy. 
Few  men  are.  If  we  want  examples 
of  tliat  worldly  virtue,  we  look  to 
you  lor  them  generally,  you  know.' 

'Why?  To  excuse  ingratitude 
in  vour  own  sex;  or  to  prove  it?  — 
which  ?' 

'  Neither :  though  you  don't  put 
it  badly.     To  learn  it,  in  our  turn.' 

'  l.ii  (jrandc  hrfor/vc !'  she  said,  pro- 
voked, and  shrugging  her  shoulders 
after  a  way  sho  had.     Dar  smiled. 

'You've  di<arrangfd  the  maud,' 
he  said;  'let  mo  fold  'it  nynu  for 
you.  There.  As  I  wa-^  saving,  wo 
are  not  so  ungrateful  as  you  think 
us.  I  am  not,  anyhow.  I  haven't 
forgotten  a  certain  Tee  Blanche  who 
used  to  inhabit  Laureston once;  and 
whom  I  saw  the  night  I  went  away, 
the  last  time  I  turned  my  head, 
standing  just  about  here,  waving 
a  little  hatnlkerchief  in  adieu  to 
Cousin  Dar.    I've  always  felt  grate- 


lite  White  Feather. 


an 


ful  to  til  at  Fdo  in  my  heart.  Do 
they  call  you  Foo  Blancho  still, 
Helen  V 

*  Of  courso  not!'  she  said,  laugh- 
ing, while  the  colour  came  into  hor 
face. 

'Of  courpc  not,'  he  repeated, 
gravely;  'who  would  dare  talk  in 
that  way  to  a  demoiselle  of  nine- 
teen witi;  a  turn  for  satirical  French? ' 

'  Only  "Cousiii  Dar,"'  I  suppose.' 

'  I  hope  so,  Fee,'  he  said,  then ; 
'  I  shouldn't  like  to  hear  any  one 
take  my  name  for  you  in  vain,  I 
think.' 

Miss  Treherno  didn't  choose  to 
a'sk  him  why ;  and  so  after  that 
they  were  silent — she  looking  out 
over  the  terrace-garden  and  the 
park,  on  to  the  far-away  woods 
shimmering  in  the  moonlight ;  and 
he  standing  beside  her  with  folded 
aims,  his  eyes  resting  often  on  her 
face. 

I  think  one  of  these  two,  at  all 
events,  was  sorry  when  '  Hebe '  and 
Gertie  came  up,  and  formed  a  quar- 
tette, which  lingered  talking  and 
laughing  so  long  that  '  my  lady ' 
had  to  summon  thtm  all  back  to  the 
drawing-room. 

'  Will  you  sing  me  the  "  Addio," 
Fee  V  Bar's  low  voice  whispered  in 
Helen's  ear,  as  they  came  in  last 
through  the  open  window;  'it's 
just  the  night  to  listen  to  Schu- 
bert. The  Madre  will  order  you  off 
directly.     Come  to  the  piano  now  !' 

Now  the  '  Addio '  was  Miss  Tre- 
herne's  song  of  songs,  and  had 
never  been  sung  by  her  for  other 
delight  than  her  own;  so  she 
asked — 

'And  pray  how  did  you  know 
that  the  '  Addio '  was  a  song  of 
mine'?' 

'  I  found  it  before  dinner  under  a 
pile  of  Gertie's  trash.  I'd  a  sort  of 
certainty  that  it  belonged  to  you, 
and  that  you  made  it  caviare  to  the 
general.     Eight,  am  1  not?' 

'  Yes,'  Helen  said  ;  '  but  then ' 

'  Why  do  I  ask  you  for  it,  you 
mean  ?  Because  it  is  caviare  to  the 
general.  I  don't  want  what  you 
give  to  everybody.  You'll  sing  it 
me— won't  you.  Fee?  Let  me  sit 
here ;  this  chair's  just  the  right 
distance;  and  jou  won't  want  me 
to  tnrn  over  leaves  for  you,  I  know.' 


And 'the  Don'  Cbtablished  him- 
self in  a  low  chair  near  the  piaio; 
and  Helen  Treherno  broke  her  rule, 
and  did  as  she  was  told,  and  sang 
him  '  L'Addio '  adorably. 

I  don't  think  she  had  even  a 
thought  of  refusing  'Cousin  Dar' 
this  that  he  asked;  though  I  am 
certain  she  Avould  have  refused  any 
one  else  tout  rut.  But  slie  had  been 
in  tiie  habit  of  obeying  all  Dar's  be- 
hests implicitly  from  a  child.,  and, 
now  that  he  had  come  back,  their 
little  tete-a-tete  on  the  terrace  just 
now  seemed  to  have  quite  re-esta- 
blished the  old  relationship  of  ruler 
and  ruled  between  them.  So,  when 
he  wanted  her  song  of  songs  from 
her,  he  got  it  at  once ;  just  as  he 
had  got  all  it  pleased  him  to  require 
from  J -a  Fee  iJlanche  ten  years  be- 
fore. 

He  sat  in  his  lounging-chair  while 
she  sang,  a  little  behind,  but  so  that 
his  eyes  could  watch  her  face  un- 
known to  her.  He  never  moved  till 
the  last  passionate,  quivering  notes 
h;id  died  away,  and  her  hands  had 
fallen  idly  into  her  lap. 

He  got  up  then,  and  came  and 
stood  lieside  her. 

'  I  shan't  a^k  for  anything  more 
after  that !'  Dar  said.  *  Thank  you, 
Fee.' 

And  if  he  could  not  well  have  said 
less,  yet  the  tone  he  spoke  in,  and 
the  look  hfs  face  wore  satisfied  the 
singer  amply. 

By-and-by  *  my  lady  '  and  the  two 
girls  went  away. 

Over  his  Cavendish  and  B  and  S, 
in  '  the  Don's '  smo'.dng-room,  Vere 
Brabazon  would  have  liked  to  open 
his  heart  to  his  chief,  and  tell  him 
of  the  belle  jDaf^sion  he  had  auda- 
ciously conceived  for  the  daughter 
of  his  house. 

Poor  '  Hebe's '  throat,  though, 
would  get  so  dry  and  husky  every 
time  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
have  it  out  before  he  went  to  bed, 
that  the  words  wouldn't  be  uttered, 
and  he  had  to  gulp  them  back  with 
a  draught  from  the  species  of  glass 
stable-bucket  at  his  elbow. 

He  didn't  know,  you  see,  how 
Dar  might  take  the  avowal,  exactly. 
He  felt  that  he  had  no  earthly  busi- 
ness to  be  in  love  with  Gertie  Fair- 
fax ;  ^hat  he  certainly  oughtn't  to 
p  a 


212 


The  Wliitc  Feather. 


Ix)  rtt  LnnrcKton  in  tho  present  state 
of  lliinirs ;  and  ttuit '  tlio  Don  '  would 
have  fair  causo  for  rcl>ukc  and 
anger,  when  he  should  know  all,  at 
his  renmining  there. 

For  all  liis  girl's  face  and  '  lady- 
like '  manner,  no  one  who  knew 
'  lh;l)0  '  ever  doulited  liis  pi  nek  and 
daring.  Old  hands  in  Iiniia,  who 
liked  tho  boy,  took  some  trouble  to 
keep  him  out  of  iinneee.«snry  peril, 
•wherein  lie  was  perpetually  wont  to 
thrust  himself;  and  would  liavo 
taken  an  extra  risk  or  so  upon  them- 
selvis  chtertully  enough  to  save 
him  from  getting  liis  beauty  spoilt. 
In  trutli  he  was  as  laughingly 
reckless,  as  languidly  careless  of 
danger,  as  cool,  and  as  full  of  dash 
when  the  right  moment  came,  as 
ever  was  Cavalier,  or  Mousquttairc 
Gris. 

And  yet  to-night  he  shrank,  as 
he  had  never  shrank  when  it  was 
merely  his  life  that  was  in  question, 
from  '  having  it  out  with  tlic  Don' 
about  Gertie,  and  was  fain  to  smoke 
steadily  on  and  hold  his  tongue. 

After  all,  it  would  do  just  as  well 
in  a  day  or  two,  when  ho  should 
jxirliaps  know  his  fate  from  her 
lips.  Yes  ;  he  would  take  the  next 
chance  she  gave  him,  and  tell  all  to 
her. 

And,  vexed  with  much  taking  of 
thought— about  as  strange  a  task 
to  him  as  picking  oakum,  —  poor 
'Ilebe'  drank  his  13  and  S,  and, 
when  hisjiipo  was  empty,  look  him- 
self oft"  to  bed  to  sleep  uj)ou  the 
only  determination  bo  could  come 
te. 

'  I  say,  Bar,'  Gertie  Fairfax  paid 
next  morning,  as  slio  came  into  the 
breakfast-room  where  tho  two  men 
were  fortifying  themselves  for  the 
hard  work  of  'the  first;'  'I  say, 
Dar,  I've  just  1  a<l  a  note  from  Flora 
Iloddcsdon.  Slie  wants  us  qll  to 
come  and  lundi  at  The  Place,  in- 
stead of  pic-nicking  in  tho  wood,  as 
wo  arranged  last  night.' 

'Oh,  does  she?'  iJar  responded, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  toast  and 
caviare;  '  well,  what  will  you  (h>T 

'  Go,  I  8uppo.se.  It's  very  kind  of 
her,  you  know;  but  it  would  have 
been  l>etter  fun  on  tho  gra^s  than 
in  the  llodde.sdon  diiniig-room. 
However,  we  can't  refuse.    Nell  and 


I  will  drive  over  about  one ;  yon 
and  j\lr.  Br.ibazon  will  bu  there  by 
that  time,  of  course?' 

'  Of  course,'  i\Ir.  Brabazon  ro- 
sp.mded,  wi.ihiug  it  were  one  bow, 
and  all  well. 

'  Don't  know  about  of  course, 
"  Ilebe,'"  Dar  said  ;  '  we've  all  our 
work  to  do  to  get  there,  anyhow. 
You'd  better  leave  ''  tho  Cliilde"  at 
home  to-day,  Gertie.  Vere  will  bo 
!iors-ilt-coiiil>-tt  by  luneh-time,  and 
you  and  F(''e  must  take  charge  of 
him,  and  bring  him  back  with  you 
in  the  phaeton.' 

Vere  tugged  at  his  moustache, 
and  glanced  dulmmsly  at  his  un- 
cons 'ious  host,  who  was  filling  a 
double-sized  pocket- tlask  at  tho 
sideboard  with  a  certain  curaroa- 
punch  he  atTected. 

Gertie  laughed,  and  blushed  a 
little. 

'I'm  afraid  Mr.  Brabazon  will 
find  "  theChilde's"  pereh  an  uneasy 
seat  for  a  weary  chasseur!  Hadn't 
we  better  .send  over  an  ambulance 
in  the  shape  of  a  brougham  ?' 

'  Never  mind  the  brougham,  Miss 
Fairfax,  thank  you!'  poor  'Hebo* 
said,  who  in  his  then  state  ot  mind 
thought  Gertie's  innocent  railbrie 
abominably  unkind.  '  If  I  do  break 
down  I  can  manage  to  get  back 
without  tiiat,  or  without  over- 
weighting your  ponies,  either, 
Never  mind  mo,  you  know!' 

'  Oh,  very  Well!'  Gertie  answered, 
wondering  what  was  the  matter 
with  him. 

And  then  '  tho  Don,'  who  had 
been  nearly  out  of  ear-shot  of  this 
little  conversation,  having  com- 
pleted the  tilling  ot  his  flask,  an- 
nounced that  it  was  time  to  start; 
and  Vere  had  to  rise  and  follow  his 
leader. 

The  birds  were  plentiful  and  not 
too  wild,  and  'the  Don'  had  ma<lo 
a  very  satisfactory  l)ag  by  tho  time 
the  two  came  m  sight  of  The  Place, 
close  upon  one  o'clock. 

'  I  suppose  wo  must  go  up,'  Dar 
said;  'they'll  l)c  waiting  linich  for 
us.  Though,  as  Gertie  said,  it 
would  have  been  nK)ro  fun  down 
here,  and  we  should  save  time  ix;- 
fiides,'  he  a<lded,  handing  over  his 
breech-loader  and  paraphernalia  to 
the  attendant  keei)ers,  who  had  been 


The  W/iite  Feather. 


213 


in  silent  ecstacies  all  the  morning 
at  the  major's  shooting;  and  who, 
nodding  approval  at  the  line  his 
master  indicated  for  the  afternoon, 
went  off  \vith  Gaiters,  a  confrere  in 
the  Hoddesdons'  service,  to  be  hos- 
pitably entertained  in  the  servants' 
hall. 

'  Very  fair  bag,  ain't  it  ?'  Dar  ob- 
served, as  they  walked  up  the  drive, 
'  considering  we  haven't  been  over 
the  best  of  the  ground  yet.' 

'Oh!  haven't  we?'  'Hebe'  re- 
sponded, wearily.  And  then;  'By 
Jove!  there  they  are  1'  with  sudden 
animation. 

'Who?  ah!    Gertie  and  Flora.' 

The  two  girls  were  standing  at 
the  swing-gate  at  the  top  of  the 
drive,  waiting  for  our  friends'  com- 
ing; and  all  four  walked  on  toge- 
ther towards  the  house. 

'  Where's  Fee  ?'  Dar  asked  of  his 
sister,  who  was  following  a  little  in 
rear  of  himself  and  Flora,  with  Vere 
by  her  side. 

'  Who's  Fee  ?'  asked  Flora  Hod- 
desdon. 

'  She  wouldn't  come,  jast  at  the 
last,'  Gertid  said  ;  '  she'd  a  head- 
ache, and  was  afraid  of  the  sun.' 

'  The  Don '  gave  the  black  mous- 
tache a  twirl,  but  said  nothiog. 

'  And  who's  Fee  ?'  repeated  Flora, 
watching  him  sharply  out  of  her 
black  eyes. 

'  Don't  you  know  ?'  Dar  re- 
sponded ;  '  my  cousin,  Helen  Tre- 
herne.' 

'  Oh!  Helen  Treherne.  What  a 
strange  sobriquet,  isn't  it?' 

'  Not  at  all,  I  think,  for  her.  How 
is  Mrs.  Hoddesdon  ?' 

And  nothing  more  was  said  about 
Fee. 

During  lunch  Flora  tried  to  dis- 
cover if  things  were  to  go  on  as 
heretofore  between  Dar  and  herself; 
whether  she  was  to  be  allowed  to 
take  up  her  parable  where  it  had 
been  broken  off;  or  whether  it  was 
to  be  considered  as  having  come  to 
an  end. 

She  was  wise  in  her  generation, 
Mifs  Hoddesdon. 

She  would  have  liked  very  much 
indeed  to  marry  Daryl  Fairfax ;  she 
would  have  infinitely  preferred  him 
to  many  a  really  better  parti  ;  and 
she  had  done  her  deadliest  to  win 


him  that  last  season.  But  if  it  was 
not  to  be  she  was  prepared  to  say 
'  kismet  r  quietly  —  to  hold  her 
tongue,  and  give  utterance  to  no  in- 
discreet lamentations.  If  the  bow- 
string should  break  and  the  shaft 
so  carefully  aimed  fall  short,  Flora 
wasn't  one  to  tear  her  hair  (in  these 
days  of  chignons  and  false  nattcs 
that  might  have  been  an  awkward 
business) ;  she  had  another  string 
all  ready,  and  was  quite  able  and 
wilhng  to  fit  it  on,  and  without  loss 
of  time  proceed  to  try  again.  There 
was  a  successor  to  '  the  Don ' 
marked  down  even  now;  though 
kept  in  petto  till  he  should  be 
wanted.  It  was  Flora's  game  to 
fintl  out  if  the  second  string  were 
likely  to  be  required.  Slie  tattled 
a  good  deal  ^o  Dar  with  this  intent, 
and  got  very  small  hope  or  encou- 
ragement from  that  individual,  who 
was  feeling  rather  aggrieved,  some- 
how, at  Helen's  absence. 

Altogether,  when  he  rose  at  last 
to  go,  she  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion (not  without  a  little  pang  or 
two,  for  poor  Flora  was,  after  all, 
no  worse  than  the  rest  of  her  kind, 
and  she  did  like  Dar  more  than  very 
much)  that  string  No.  2  would  have 
to  be  used  after  all. 

She  bore  her  disappointment 
pluckily  enough —  it  wasn't  her  cus- 
tom, as  she  said  herself,  to  give  in 
under  punishment — and  she  wished 
Dar  good-bye,  and  good  sport  with  a 
nod  and  a  smile  as  usual,  and  then 
turned  back  to  press  Gertie  to  stay 
an  hour  or  two  longer. 

Gertie  was  a  few  yards  off  on  the 
croquet-lawn,  pretending,  as  she 
tried  to  fasten  the  button  of  her 
driving-glove,  not  to  see  Vere  Bra- 
bazon  coming  towards  her.  Ob- 
serving which.  Flora,  who  was  fairly 
good-natured  au  fond,  thought 
better  of  her  intention;  and  went 
indoors,  and  had  a  long  inspection 
of  herself  before  her  cheval-glass 
previously  to  making  her  prepara- 
tions for  fitting  on  her  second 
string  forthwith. 

'  Why  not?'  she  muttered  aloud; 
'  he  cares  nothing  for  me.  Never 
has,  I  suppose.  I  was  a  fool  to 
think  he  ever  meant  anything.  _  I 
should  be  a  greater  fool  still  if  I 
wasted  any  more  time  over  him. 


214 


The  White  Feather. 


And  Guy  seems  caper  cnonph.  And 
lie's  as  pood  a  jnuli  ns  Dor,  alter 
all— or  better.  And  yet—!'  And 
then  Miss  Iloddc-don  shook  lieiself 
together  iini);iti(  ntly,  mid  sliin)]ied 
a  neat  little  lialmoiiil-booted  loot 
upon  the  floor,  hard. 

Rlianwhilo  (Jertie,  on  the  lawn, 
hadn't  succeeded  in  buttoiiinp  that 
obstinate  puuntlet  yet.  Vcro  was 
close  be.-ide  her  now,  and  she  bad 
to  look  up. 

'  Oh !  Mr.  Brabaznn,'  she  said, 
demurely,  holding  out  her  wri.st  to 
him  as  she  spoke,  and  not  forpettinp 
to  notice  how  eaperly  '  Hebe's '  lin- 
gers closed  upon  it,  '  niipht  I  ask 
you  to  button  this  tiresome  glovo 
for  me  ?' 

Vero  was  a  long  time  about  it, 
and  as  it  gecmed  lie  had  nothing  to 
say,  she  was  obliged  to  speak  again. 

'  You  know  Dar  is  gone,  I  sup- 
pose ?  Don't  you  caro  for  the  after- 
noon birds?' 

'Detest  the  walking  so!'  he  an- 
swered. '  If  I  miglit  have  a  pony 
I  shouldn't  mind  so  much.  But 
"  the  Don"  calls  tliat  sort  of  thing 
unsportsmanlike,  and  so  I  have  to 
trudge  through  these  never-ending 
stubbles  in  these  awful  things,'  lie 
continued,  glancing  down  ruefully 
at  his  shooting-boots. 

'  I  suppose  you  haven't  ordered 
the  ambulance  lor  me.  Miss  Fairfax':" 
ho  said,  presently,  doing  penance, 
as  it  were,  for  his  little  speech  in 
the  breakfast-room,  that  morning. 

'No!'  faid  Geitic,  sternly— ho 
had  buttoned  the  refractory  gauntlet 
by  this  time — '  you  didn't  deicrvo 
it!' 

'  I  know  that !'  pleaded  '  Ilebe  ;' 
'  I  rai.suH'ler.'-tood.  I  thought  you 
were  laughing  at  me,  you  know !' 

'  Laughing  at  you?  7  don't  un- 
derstand, Mr.  l5ral«7on!' 

'  AtK)ut  my  shutting  up  so  Eoon, 
and  that.' 

'  What  non«!<n«:e!  you  ought  to 
have  known  l)etter.  And  now  I 
snpjK)?©  yttu  mean  to  walk  back  to 
Lanreston?' 

'  Well,  yes.  I  shall  pet  there 
somehow,  you  know,  unless ' 

'  Unks.s  what?' 

'  Unless  yon  will  consent  to  de- 
po'^  "  the  Childe,"  fur  once;  and 
Uko  mc  back  on  Lis  perch?' 


'  As  if  you  could  sit  there !'  ncrtie 
laughed.  '  No,  I  can't  consint  to  de- 
pose "  the  Ghilde."  But  you  may 
have  Nell's  place,  if  you  like.' 

'  May  I  ?     What,  b,iots  and  all  ?' 

'  B  )ots  and  all.     Will  you?' 

'  Won't  r^' 

'  Tin  n  coiuo  and  say  good-bye  to 
]\Irs.  Iloddcpdon  and  Flora;'  and 
she  rang  for  the  iionies. 

Dancing,  and  sliaKing  their  wilful 
little  heads,  under  llio  guidance  of 
'  the  Chiliie,'  in  whom  skill  sup- 
plied the  place  of  stren;:tli,  Damon 
and  Pythias  camo  round  to  the  door 
iu  due  time. 

'  The  gates  arc  open  Ixjlow,  Flory  ?' 
Gertie  saiil,  just  before  tliey  started, 
to  Mi.ss  Hoddtsdon,  who  stood  on 
the  steps  in  lier  walking  dress 
watching  tlieni  off,  and  tliinking 
how  grateful  Vero  ought  to  bo  tc 
her  for  having  tliem  to  themselves 
all  that  time  on  the  lawn. 

'  Yes,  they  know  you're  coming,' 
Flora  answered  ;  '  Ihcy  seem  awfully 
fresh,  don't  they?'  she  continued, 
as  the  ponies  began  '  back'ng  and 
lilling,'  in  their  disgust  at  this 
colloquy. 

'  Always  are!'  Gertie  responded, 
fingering  her  reins,  and  nodding  to 
'  the  Childe'  to  let  tluini  go;  '  tlioy 
don't  get  half  enough  work,  poor 
things.     Good-bye !' 

And  the  light  phaeton  shot  like  a 
whirlwind  down  the  drive,  and 
round  the  sharp  corner  into  a  road 
which  led  them  acro.ss  the  common, 
and  then,  by  a  dctmir,  back  into  the 
main  highway  to  Lanreston. 

There  was  a  shorter  route,  but 
the  ponies  V^ing  so  short  of  work. 
Miss  Fairfax  chose  the  longer  on 
this  occa.'-ion.  Perhaps,  too,  she 
thought  that  at  the  rate  they  were 
going  they  would  get  hon)e  quite 
soon  enough,  notwithstanding  the 
dcfoiir. 

If  she  didn't,  Vero  did.  And  ns 
he  lay  back  lazily  on  his  cushicms, 
watching  his  companion  under  his 
lf)ng  ejola.'-hes,  he  l)(giin  to  wish  the 
distance  were  doubled  at  least. 

For  Gertie  was  so  taken  up  with 
the  managrment  of  her  pets  that  ho 
felt  she  could  hardly  bo  cxpec^ted  to 
listen  to  him  at  present,  and  half-a- 
dozen  iniks  could  be  got  over  only 
too  quickly.     Perforce  ho  held  his 


The  While  Feather. 


2^,5 


tongue,  then;  not  altogether  sorry 
to  hold  l)aek  a  wliilo  longer  I'roin 
putting  Ill's  fortuuo  to  the  touch 
and  winning  or  losing  all,  and 
happy  enough  in  his  propinquity  to 
her.  So  they  rolled  along,  without 
speaking,  at  rather  an  alarming  pace 
for  a  nervous  individual,  the  light 
phaeton  swaying  sharply  now  and 
then  from  side  to  side  in  a  decidedly 
ominous  manner,  and  Die  ponies 
going  so  free  tliat  it  was  an  open 
question  wliether  they  had  bolted 
or  not. 

If  it  hadn't  been  that  both  the 
occupants  of  the  pony-cbaise  had 
reasons  of  their  own  for  not  wishing 
what  ought  to  have  been  a  pleasant 
lete-ci-lctc  to  be  brought  sooner  than 
need  be  to  an  end,  I  believe  they 
would  have  enjoyed  the  excitement 
of  the  pace  thoroughly.  As  it  was, 
Gertie  was  wishing  her  companion 
would  olTer  to  take  a  pull  at  the 
rebels,  though  she  couldn't  bring 
herself  to  adiuit  they  had  got  oi;t  of 
her  hand  already,  and  Vere  was 
wondering  whether  he  dared  do 
that  tbing. 

'Looks  deuced  like  a  bolt!'  ho 
thought.  '  Shouldn't  Jilce  to  tell  her 
80  yet,  though.  She  thinks  she  can 
manage  these  little  beggars ;  and, 
by  Jove !  she  does  handle  "cm  beau- 
tifully. Whit  a  darling  she  is ! 
and  how  I  wish  we  were  only  going 
slow  enough  for  me  to  tell  her  so. 
I  think  I  could  do  it  now.  They'll 
sober  down  a  bit,  perhaps,  after  this 
hill,  and  then ' 

Ami '  Hebe's '  languid  pnlse  began 
to  quirken  at  the  thought  of  what 
he  meant  to  screw  his  courage  to  do 
then. 

Gertie's  little  hands  meanwhile 
were  growing  stiif  and  livid  watli 
the  strain  upon  them.  Her  numbed 
fingers  were  clenched  desperately  on 
the  thin  wdiite  reins  they  could 
hardly  feel,  hut  by  some  ill  chance 
the  Hoddesdim  groom  had  shifted 
them  from  lower-bar  to  check  when 
the  ponies  had  been  put-to  again  at 
The  Place. 

*  How  stuj^id  of  Drake  not  to  see 
to  that!'  poor  Gertie  thought,  as 
they  began  to  rise  the  short,  sliarp 
hill  that  lay  between  tbem  and  the 
open  common.  '  I  can't  hold  them 
a  bit  I   They  must  bo  ruuuiug  away ! 


And  those  gravel-pits  on  the  om- 
mon  !'  And,  for  all  her  pluck.  Miss 
Fairfix  turned  a  little  pale  when 
she  reineiubered  them. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  rise  tboy 
were  swinging  up  now,  the  road, 
within  half-a-mile,  debouched  on  to 
a  waste,  through  which  ran  tlie 
deep-rutted  track  of  the  heavy  carts 
usei  in  carrying  away  the  gravel 
from  the  pits  on  either  side. 

Once  in  this  cart-track,  and  it 
would  take  little,  at  the  pace  they 
were  going,  to  bring  about  a  catas- 
trophe. Their  only  chance,  she 
knew,  was  to  stop  the  runaways  be- 
fore they  quilted  the  comparatively 
smooth  main  road. 

Already  the  hedges  were  gliding 
by  with  a  rapidity  that  made  her 
feel  sick  and  giddy— already  her 
strength  was  exhausted,  and  Pythias 
had  followed  Damon's  exauiplo,  and, 
with  a  jerk  of  his  obstinate  little 
head  at  the  fast-slackening  reins, 
had  got  the  bit  fairly  between  his 
teeth.  There  was  no  liolp  for  it ; 
she  must  confess  herself  btaten,and 
ask  Vere  to  help  her. 

She  turned  her  head  towards  him, 
as,  ignorant  of  their  common  danger, 
and  indolently  reckless  by  nature, 
'  Hebe '  lay  back  watching  her,  and 
speculating  as  to  when  she  would 
have  had  enough  of  it,  or  the  ponies 
would  become  amenable. 

'  Will  you  try  and  stop  them, 
please  ?'  Gertie  said,  at  last.  *  I — I 
think  they  must  be  running  away, 
do  yon  know.' 

'  I've  been  thinking  so  for  some 
time,'  Vere  responded,  tranquilly,  as 
he  took  the  reins  from  her ;  '  only 
the  road  seemed  all  clear,  and  you 
didn't  seem  to  mind,  and  I  was 
afraid  you'd  be  angry  if  I  told  you. 
Good  God !  what's  the  matter  ?'  he 
cried,  his  voice  losing  suddenly  all 
its  wonted  languor,  as  he  saw  her 
sink  back  pale  and  trembling. 
'  You're  not  afraid,  I  koow  ;  l>e- 
sidt  s,  they  can't  go  another  mile  at 
this  pace.' 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the 
hill  by  this  time.  The  waste  land, 
scarred  here  and  there,  rigb.t  and 
left  of  the  rough  road  that  ran 
through  it,  with  rents  and  chasms 
that  were  visible  even  now,  lay  be- 
fore them,  a  gtutio  descent  of  per- 


!I6 


The  White  Fealher. 


l-iap>  Imlf  a  mile  intervening.  Gertie 
pointed  forward. 

'  Tlie  gravel- ]>its,  yonder!'  she 
said.  '  Clin  you  stop  tliem  ?  There 
is  jnst  time,  I  think.' 

'  IIcl'C  '  saw  it  all  then— measured 
the  danger,  and  rose  to  it,  as  he  had 
done  to  grtattr  peril  than  this,  only 
then  it  was  his  own  life,  not  hers, 
he  ha<l  had  to  look  to. 

He  gripped  the  slender  white 
rein«,  taking  a  turn  round  each 
hand,  and  wondered  if  they  were 
likely  to  bear  the  strain.  Then  ho 
gave  Ciertie  one  loik  that  said  a 
goo<l  deal. 

'Sit  still.  Miss  Fairfax,'  he  said, 
'  whatever  ha])pens.  I  think  it  will 
be  a'l  light.  They're  running  quite 
straight  now;  and  I  shall  try  and 
turn  them  on  to  the  bank  on  the 
off-side.  We  mcuj  go  over^  but  it's 
our  best  chance.' 

Down  the  slope  they  rushed  faster 
than  ever— the  danger  wa.'^  nearing 
at  every  stride. 

Yerc  couliin't  help  looking  at  his 
ctompanion  again— there  was  just 
time  for  that  before  he  made  his 
etfort. 

She  was  very  pale,  and  her  hands 
were  clasped  tightly  together.  But 
there  was  never  a  sign  or  trace  of 
fear  upon  her  face,  nor  in  the  eyes 
she  turned  to  lueet  his. 

'  I'm  not  afraid,  Vere,'  she  said, 
calling  him  by  his  name  at  that 
moment  unconsciously;  'I  can  trust 
to  you.' 

'  That's  right!'  he  muttered,  with 
.sometliing  that  sounded  very  like 
'darling;'  'trusttome.  Rememlier, 
I  shall  turn  them  on  to  the  off-side. 
Hold  tirm!' 

There  wa.s  little  time  to  lose  now. 
They  were  very  near  the  end  of  the 
descent,  and  Yen;  had  to  take  the 
first  chance  that  olfcred— a  slight 
bend  in  the  roid,  thai  gave  him  an 
advantaf:e.  With  a  sudden,  vigor- 
ous pull  on  the  off-rein,  he  got  the 
runaways"  heads  towards  the  hedge 
at  a  point  whore  the  bank  was  low- 
est; and,  unable  to  Btop  thcni.'^elvcs, 
the  ponies  had  to  charge  the  quick- 
set. The  jerk  of  the  polo  flung  one 
offender  on  his  knees,  the  phaeton 
gave  a  tremendous  lurch,  and  f)iily 
jn.st  did  not  g)  over.  And  then 
Vere  was  lifting  Gertie  from  it  in 


his  arms;  and  'the  Childo,'  who 
had  bcliavc'l  splendidly  tlirouLrhout, 
was  at  tiie  heads  of  tlie  discomfited 
]nir,  and  all  danger  was  over. 
Whereupon  ]\Iiss  Fairfax  rlid  what 
she  never  remembered  doing  in  all 
her  life  before,  and  fainted  dead 
away.  IIorrii)Iy  scared  at  the  deadly 
pallor  on  her  face,  '  Hebo '  de- 
spatched '  the  Childe '  for  assistance 
to  the  nenrest  cottage,  and  tiien,  not 
knowing  what  on  earth  to  do,  de- 
posited his  charge  tenderly  on  tho 
carriage  cusliion.s,  which  he  liad 
flung  out  upon  the  bank,  and  l)egan 
1o  adjure  her  pa'^sionately  to  speak 
to  liiin,  if  only  one  word. 

Some  minutes  elapsed  before  poor 
Gertie  recovert  d  consciousness.  But 
l)re.sently  the  faint  colour  came 
back  to  her  face ;  her  eyes  opened  ; 
and  she  saw  Vere  hanging  over  her 
with  a  look  of  such  pitiable  help- 
le.'-sness  and  concern  on  his  usually 
ixsouciant  vi.sage  that  p'.most  made 
her  laugh,  even  then;  while  her 
ears  caught  his  devout  expression 
of  relief  and  tliankfulne.s.s. 

She  said  nothing  just  at  that  mo- 
ment, but  the  little  hand  he  was 
chafing  so  tenderly  between  his  own 
wasn't  drawn  away  ;  and  Yerc 
seemed  quite  content  witli  that. 

By-and-by  'the  Childc'  came 
back.  But  the  help  he  brought 
with  him  in  tho  shape  of  a  comely 
cotter's  wife  was  no  longer  needed. 
Gertie  profcs.sed  herself  quite  right 
again,  and  quite  ready  to  start. 

So  '  Hel)e'  put  her  carefully  back 
into  the  phaeton,  and  took  the  reins 
himself  this  time,  without  a  word  of 
objection  from  her,  and  then  they 
started. 

At  a  foot  pace  over  tho  rough 
road  across  the  common,  the  yawn- 
ing gravel-pits  making  ( Jertie  sliiver 
and  close  her  eyes,  and  looking  un- 
commonly ugly,  even  to  Yere's 
careless  glance,  as  he  thought  what 
might  have  happened  to  his  wilful 
love  by  this  time  if  she  liad  been 
alone;  and  at  a  sober  trot  along  tho 
green  lanes  on  the  other  side,  the 
ponies  thoroughly  di.sconiCited  and 
ashamed, and  f-carcely  needing  Yere's 
firm  hand  over  them.  And  so  to 
Laureston. 

Little  was  said  by  either  on  the 
way. 


The  White  Feather. 


217 


He  felt  it  was  no  time  to  speak 
the  words  tliat  had  been  trembling 
on  his  lips  an  liour  before,  and  Ger- 
tie's heart  was  too  full  for  any  idle 
talk  just  now. 

Once  she  had  put  out  her  hand 
to  hira,  and— they  were  on  the  ter- 
race then  -striven  to  utter  collected 
W()rds  c)f  thanks.  But  her  voice 
lia'l  faltered  strangely,  and  the 
warm  tears  would  start  unbidden 
into  her  dark  eyes,  usually  so  full 
of  lanfjhter  and  badinage.  So  she 
had  left  her  gratitude  unspoken, 
ond  had  gone  off  to  tell  the  story  of 
her  adventure  to  '  my  lady,'  leaving 
Vere,  though,  happier  than  he  had 
been  for  many  a  long  day,  with  the 
sound  of  his  own  name,  as  she  had 
breathed  it,  lingering  divinely  in  his 
ears. 

Meanwhile,  the  birds  in  the  out- 
lying fields  had  been  put  up,  and 
knocked  over  to  '  the  Don's '  entire 
satisfaction.  Hodges,  the  Laureston 
keeper,  chary  of  praise  as  he  was, 
gruiited  assent  to  the  majors  re- 
mark, that,  on  the  whole,  to-day 
was  about  as  good  a  '  first '  as  he 
had  known,  while  he  received  over 
the  latter's  equipment  once  more; 
and  Dar  prepared  for  a  sharp  walk 
home  across  the  fields. 

'  Wonder  why  Fee  didn't  come  to 
lunch  to-day?'  he  soliloquised,  be- 
tween little  clouds  of  blue  tobacco 
smoke,  as  he  trampled  through  the 
crackling  stubble  on  his  way  back, 
alone.  '  I  suppose  the  headache 
was  a  headache  ;  or  perhaps  Gertie 
has  been  putting  some  nonsense 
into  her  head  about  Flora,  and  she 
was  afriad  of  being  de  trop.  There's 
nothing  more  annoying  than  for 
outsiders  to  imagine  there's  any- 
thing between  oneself  and  a  wonian 
when  there  isn't,  and  when,  as  in 
this  case,  there  won't  be  either. 
Flora !  why  she's  carried  on  the 
game  she's  been  trying  with  me 
■with  half-a-dozen  fellows  already. 
I  don't  merin  to  be  my  wife's  jns-alkr, 
if  I  know  it,  by  Jove !' 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  knock 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  to  re- 
plenish it,  here. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  field  he 
was  crossing  lay  the  road  that  ran 
from  The  Place  to  Laureston.  Bor- 
dered by  a  close-clipped  hedge,  side 


by  side  upon  the  footpath,  walking 
very  leisurely,  two  people  came  in 
sight  while  Dar  was  striking  his 
vesuvian  and  getting  his  fresh  pipe 
fairly  under  way. 

The  one  nearest  the  hedge,  a 
woman,  kept  her  face  slightly  turned 
from  it,  and  towards  her  companion 
(a  tall,  dashing,  and  unmistakeal)lo 
Plunger,  in  spite  ot  his  round  hat 
and  pekin  shootins-jacket),  who, 
with  his  horse's  bridle  over  his  arm, 
lounged  along  quite  contentedly. 

When  his  meerschaum  was  blazing 
away  again  '  the  Don '  turned  to  re- 
sume his  march.  As  he  did  so,  the 
tall  figure  on  the  footpath  (which 
ran  parallel  with  the  line  ho  was 
taking)  caught  his  eye. 

'  What's  Guy  Devereux  doing 
here?'  he  thought,  carelessly.  He 
knew  the  man  at  once— a  major  on 
the  cavalry  staff  at  Maid  low,  who 
had  once  served  in  his  own  corps 

*  And  who's  the  woman  he's  flirt- 
ing with  so  heavily?' 

just  then  Guy  Devereux's  incog- 
nita turned  her  face  almost  fully 
towards  him,  and  consequently  away 
from  Dar.  The  sinking  sun  lit  up 
something  in  her  hat.  A  long  white 
feather,  the  same  'the  Don'  had 
stood  watching  the  evening  before  at 
the  Baddingley  Station,  when  La  Fee 
Blanche  drove  away  with  his  sister. 

'That's  it,  is  it?'  Dar  ejaculated. 
'  There's  no  mistaking  that  white 
feather.  We're  carrying  on  a  little 
game  with  that  fellow  Devereux, 
are  we?  A  secret  little  game,  it 
seems,  since  we  resort  to  migraine 
and  solitary  walks.  Little  fool  you 
are.  Fee.  You  don't  know  Guy  as 
I  do,  or  I  doubt  you'd  trust  him 
quite  so  far.  I'd  better  drop  down 
on  them,  I  think.' 

And  'the  Don'  half  turned  out 
of  his  course  to  put  his  thought  into 
practice. 

The  pair  on  the  footpath,  how- 
ever, were  either  aware  of  him  or 
dreaded  interruption  from  other 
quarters,  for  they  quitted  the  high 
road  for  a  green  lane  that  ran  mto 
it  just  there,  and  were  out  of  sight 
at  once. 

Dar  checked  himself  with  his  hard 
smile,  curving  the  ends  of  his  mous- 
1  tache  the  while,  and  went  straight 
on  his  way. 


218 


The  While  Feather. 


'  Wliiit  nrn  I  about?'  ho  muttered 
aloud  :  '  wlmt  business  is  it  o!'  iiiinu? 
I  fiupp  >so  Fee  can  lake  earo  of  her- 
self. I  don't  like  the  mystery  of 
the  thine:,  though.  Pleading  a  he:id- 
aeho  to  ct)iiipa.ss  a  tc!v-u-'Jtc  with  a 
man  like  Guy  Deveicux don't  exactly 
look  well.  Hardly  likelier,  I  sliuuld 
have  paid.  But  then  f-he  nevtr  ex- 
pected to  l>o  rccogni7.ed  at  this  tinio 
of  day.  She  out^htnt  to  liave  shown 
tiiat  white  featlier.  Bull!  She's  a 
womp.n!  Why  the  duvil  should  I 
bo  surprised  at  anything  of  this 
sort  ?■ 

I  dare  say  ho  sncccci'led  in  per- 
Buadiiig  himself  that  ho  was  not 
surjiriscd  in  tho  least  belbro  ho 
reached  Luurc-ton.  But  he  debated, 
chemin  fais'iut,  as  to  whether  ho 
ought  to  tell  Helen  what  he  had 
seen,  and  whether,  as  a  siin])!e  mat- 
ter of  duty,  ho  oughtn't  to  tell  her, 
besidc.a,  something  of  the  man  in 
wlioso  compromiaiiig  company  ho 
had  seen  her. 

'  1(  bhe  cares  for  him,'  ho  argued, 
'all  1  can  tay  will  bo  rather  worse 
than  nsele.ss.  H' the  don't,  why  is 
she  walking  with  him  in  country 
lanes  alone  at  this  hour,  when  she's 
supposed  to  be  a  victim  to  miijruiae 
indoors?' 

On  the  whole  Dar  came  to  tho 
conclusion  that  it  wou'd  l>o  better 
to  bide  his  time  and  not  interfere  at 
present. 

Devereux,  for  aught  ho  knew, 
might  have  won  the  right  to  play 
cavalier  scuL  And  yet,  why  on 
earth  should  she  make  a  mystery  of 
what  might  be  harmless  and  natural 
enough?  It  was  tho  mystery,  of 
course,  which  he  found  so  unplea- 
Bant.  He  hadn't  jiiven  Helen — 
whom,  cvnic  as  he  wa^,  he  couldn't 
bring  himself  to  thirdc  hardly  of  so 
Boon— he  h Kbi't  fiiven  Cousin  Helen 
credit  for  this  turn  for  putly  plot- 
ting. Gertie  mi}:ht  be  able,  ])i'r- 
haps,  to  tell  him  feomelhing  which 
would  explain  all. 

\Vlien,  ten  mirlutea  later,  ho  had 
mounted  the  terr.icu  steps,  Gertie, 
who  had  been  lyin^r  in  wait  for  him 
there,  came  upon  Iiiin  unawares,  and 
di'I  \t\\  himtoni' thing  whi'^h  he  liad 
bten  a  long  way  from  ever  dream- 
ing of. 

Vero  Brabazou's  timo  liad  como 


at  last,  it  seemed.  When  Gertie 
liad  como  down  stairs  after  render- 
ing account  <A  what  ha  I  befallen 
her  to  'my  lady,' and  had  tutored 
her  voice  t)  tell  him  eohercntly  and 
steadily  that  which  was  but  imleed 
liis  due,  then  '  Hebo'  knew  that 
if  he  wero  to  t-peak  at  all  it  should 
bo  now.  So,  once  again,  tho  old, 
old  story  that  is  ever  new  waswhis- 
]Hr(d  iuto  (.aqer-listeiiiui?  ears;  and 
whci)  it  was  eniled  the  teller  felt 
that  it  had  not  been  told  in  vain. 

This  was  the  news  which  (iertio 
had  ■undeita';en  to  break  to  Dar. 

'Tho  Don'  received  it  with  his 
Tisual  tranquillity,  thou:;h  lio  was 
rather  surprised,  and  said  ho  sup- 
l^o.sed  chiUlren  avouM  be  children, 
and  made  rather  light  of  it,  till  his 
pet's  eyes  began  to  fl  i^h  a  little  under 
his  badinage;  and  then  ho  put  his 
arm  round  her  and  kissed  her,  and 
told  her  (in  that  changed  voice  few 
but  his  sister  and  his  motiier  ever 
heard,  and  even  they  not  olten)  that 
it  pleased  him  well  to  know  she 
loved  the  man  who  was  to  himself 
as  a  brother  alroinly,  and  to  wUom 
he  coiiKl  trust  even  one  so  dear  to 
him  as  she  was. 

'Dar!  Dar!  how  kind  you  are  to 
mo,'  murmured  Gertie,  through  her 
happy  tears,  as  her  heul  rested  on 
his  l)ro;id  slrmlder.  She  knew  how 
much  these  few  loud  words  meant, 
coming  fiom  one  lilce  liiiii. 

Then  she  took  hiui  off  to  'my 
lady,'  to  ])ut  the  ma'tcr  in  the  best 
light  for  the  maternal  eyes. 

'  iMy  lady'  heard  wlat  both  had 
got  to  say  ;  and  then,  with  a  i)leased 
smile  that  belied  her  words,  told 
her  daughter  tliat  wa^  rather  ab- 
surd, and  so  forth;  that  she  ought 
to  mairy  a  jn-is'-},ar<i,  like  Penru- 
thyn  or  Polwheal;  that  she  and 
VeiM  were  a  pair  of  ibolidi  children; 
and  that  if  they  insisted  on  many- 
ing  for  lovo  they  must  lie  prcparcil 
for  all  .sorts  of  terrible  coiisc  quences. 
But '  my  lady's'  only  condition  was 
that  her  hiitu-jih  to  bo  should  leaTo 
tho  army  and  fettle  down  with  his 
wife  in  tho  vju-ant  1  tower  House  in 
tho  Park,  iho  fact  biing  that  'my 
kely'  linil  taken  a  gre.it  fmcy  to 
'Hebe' from  t!ie  liist— possilily  1x3- 
causo  her  own  ])ar  ha  1  ris'<(  d  his 
liie  to  save  tho  boy's  -and  that  she 


The  While  Feather. 


219 


had,  I  foar,  mesdamcs,  ratlior  hetc- 
rod(«  notions  of  what  constitutes  a 
good  match. 

It  was  evidently  all  right;  for 
Gertie  presently  ordered  Vere  off  to 
dress  before  time,  his  presence  being 
required  in  'uiy  lady's'  morning- 
room  so  soon  as  that  operation 
should  be  completed,  from  which 
apartment  Mr.  Brabazou itsu(.d  forth, 
half  an  hour  or  so  later,  radiant  and 
happy,  leading  his  hostess  down 
stairs  to  the  drawing-room. 

Tliat  night  all  whom  it  might  im- 
mediately concern  were  aware  that 
Gertie  Fairfax  and  Vere  Brabazou, 
of  'Ours,'  were  engaged,  with  the 
cordial  approval  of  the  powers  that 
were. 

Helen  Treherne  had  the  whole 
story  of  their  loves  poured  into  her 
ears  as  she  and  her  cousin  sat  to- 
gether in  the  Litter's  rooiu,  during 
the  pleasant  half-hour  before  Pincot 
and  dressing. 

'  He's  to  leave  the  army,  of  course,' 
Gertie  said ;  '  I  should  never  be  let 
to  go  out  there  with  him,  you  know. 
Oh!  if  Bar  would  only  tiud  me  a 
sister-in-law  and  sell  out  too,  I 
should  have  nothing  left  to  wish 
for.  It's  horri))le  to  think  he's 
going  out  again  in  December.' 

'  Perhaps  he  won't  go  out  again, 
who  knows?'  Helen  said. 

'  Ho  will  unless .     "Why,  he's 

talking  of  it  already,  and  it's  barely 
twenty-four  hours  tince  he  came. 
It  will  take  some  one  stronger  than 
the  Madre  and  me  to  keep  him  in 
England,  Nell.' 

'  Well,  isn't  there  Flora  Hoddes- 
don  ?' 

'  Flora  ?'  Gertie  shook  her  little 
head  very  wisely.  'It  won't  be 
Flora,  Nell,  you'll  see.  I  Matched 
them  to-day  at  luncheon.  Eitlier  it 
never  was  she,  or  its  some  one  else 
now.  It's  all  over  between  them.' 
'  Vrai  r  Helen  asked. 
'I'm  sure  of  it.  I  only  wish  I 
were  as  sure  about  the  some  one 
else.  And  so  the  headache's  better, 
dear?' 

'Oh!  yes;  it's  quite  well  now,' 
Helen  affirmed. 

It  was  never  very  bad,  I  believe, 
that  miijraine  with  which  Cousin 
Helen  had  chosen  to  afflict  herself 
that  afternoon.    '  The  Don '  perhaps 


had  hit  on  its  true  cause  when  lie 
put  it  down,  rather  egotistically,  to 
a  desire  on  Fein's  part  \vA  to  be  da 
trop  at  The  Place  under  certaiu 
probable  circumstances.  Anyhow, 
Helen  went  away  to  her  own  room, 
after  her  conversation  with  Gertie, 
perfectly  convalescent. 

The  lovers  spent  the  evening  on 
the  terrace  in  the  moolight  romau- 
tically  enough.  When  Dar  cauie 
into  the  Long  Drawing-room  after 
dinner  he  found  Helen  all  alone  at 
the  piano  playing  Chupiu  to  herself ; 
'  my  lady'  he  had  just  quitted,  esta- 
blished on  her  sofa  in  her  own 
chamber  again. 

'  Why  didn't  you  drive  over  with 
Gertie,  Fee?'  'the  Don'  asked,  as 
he  came  up  to  Ids  cousin.  '  She  said 
you'd  a  headache.  The  drive  would 
have  done  you  good.' 

'I  think  it  would  now,'  she  an- 
swered ;  '  but  I  thought  I  was  better 
at  home.  It  was  fortunate  I  didn't 
go,  wasn't  it?  It's  awful  to  think 
what  might  have  happened  to  poor 
Gertie  if  only  I,  instead  of  Mr.  Bra- 
bazou, had  been  with  her.' 

He  paused  after  this  a  little  while 
before  he  asked  her, 

'  But  you  went  out  somewhere, 
to-day  ?' 

She  never  noticed  the  slight  in- 
flection in  his  voice  that  might  have 
told  her  this  was  no  such  idle 
question,  from  his  lips,  as  it 
seemed. 

'  Yes.  In  the  park;  f  u'  about  an 
hour,  at  sundown.  Major  Deve- 
reux  called  here ;  anel  I  went  out 
after  he  was  gone.' 

'  I  see,'  Dar  said,  '  and  only  into 
the  park?  no  further?' 

'  I  was  alone,  you  know.  Why 
do  you  ask  ?' 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  as  she 
spoke,  and  met  his  gaze  nnflinch- 
ingly. 

'  She  does  it  well !'  he  thought ; 
'  she  must  know  what  I  mean,  even 
if  she  didn't  recognize  me  when  she 
was  with  him.  •  1  am  not  to  inter- 
fere, I  suppose.' 

Then  he  replied  aloud,  '  I  fancied 
I  saw  you  as  I  came  home,  that's 
all!  at  least  I  did  see  your  white 
feather  in  the  distance.' 

'  When?'  Helen  asked,  smiling. 
The  smile  seemed  to  stab  him. 


280 


The  Wliite  FeaOicr. 


'  On  tho  rnid  bctwcrn  tlii^  aiul 
Tlio  Phicc  — al)  lut  tell  minutes  tV.)iii 
tlic  lower  lolgo.  Of  courjo  I  was 
lui.-takeii.' 

'Of  cuiirse!'  pIio  answorcil ;  'I 
wasn't  out  of  higbt  of  tho  terrace  all 
the  afternoon.' 

'  And  who  wears  n  hat  like  yours 
here?'  ho  (|uesii<)nod  rather  sud- 
denly. A  Very  simple  idea  had  just 
occurred  to  him. 

'  No  oue  hut  Gertie,  that  I  know 
of,'  Helen  said  ;  '  I  heliovo  uiy  tu'|U0 
to  1)0  unifjue  down  here,  (jleitiu's 
feather  is  hiack,  you  know.' 

'  It  was  a  white  feather  I  eaw,' 
]io  said,  watching  her  keenly,  and 
thinking  apuin  how  well  she  did  it. 
•  And  it  was  yours— I  could  have 
sworn.' 

'  Strange !'  laughed  Helen. 

'  My  mistake,  of  course!*  Dar 
said.     And  said  no  more. 

But  as  he  Fat  alono  that  night  in 
his  own  room,  smoking  ovir  his 
log-fire,  it  seemed  quite  char  to  him 
that  she  mount  to  keep  her  own 
counsel,  and  that  he  had  no  right 
to  interfere,  liight?  \Vhat  was 
she  to  him,  or  he  to  her?  Tiiere 
might  be  a  hundred  reasons  why 
she  should  walk  with  Guy  Uoveroux 
tclt-a-tctc,  of  which  he  know,  and 
could  know,  nothing,  lie  hadn't, 
indeed,  given  her  credit  for  so  much 
dii)loniatic  roucric  and  snn'i-froid. 
But  what  grounds  had  he  for  think- 
ing she  was  incfipihlo  of  either? 
IIo  hiidn't  seen  her  since  she  was  a 
child.  Tlie  cliild  wa-t  a  woman  now  ; 
and  how  much  faith  in  her  kind  had 
his  experienco  taught  him? 

Daryl  Fairfax  grew  quite  his 
wonted  cynical  self  again,  over  Jiis 
last  pipe  that  night. 

He  had  settleil,  ho  p(asuaded 
himself,  in  liis  own  mind  that  his 
philoso|)liy  was  the  true  one. 

The  d.i\s  came  and  went.  There 
was  little  outward  change  in  his 
manners  towiuvls  Cousin  Helen — 
he  diiin't  cill  her  Fi'e  now— hut  she 
at  least  felt  sometimes  that  tho 
Cousin  Dar  of  the  old  time  had  al- 
tered more  than  she  had  at  first 
imagined.     And  not  for  the  hotter. 

Since  that  first  night  on  the 
terrace  they  had  spent  others  there  ; 
and  Helen  Treherne  was  fain  to 
confess,  not  without  a  strange,  sliarp 


pang,  that  her  hero  could  he  liarsh, 
and  liitt<r,  and  unjust,  like  an  or- 
dinary mortal. 

Only,  that  if  lio  had  1  ecu  tho 
ordiriary  mortal,  she  wouldn't  havo 
cartd  nuich  for  the  discovery.  But 
being  what  ho  was — her  hero  since 
she  could  remember  him— sho  did 
care  a  good  ileal. 

'  Tho  Don '  was  growing  angry 
with  himself  and  with  her.  Twice 
since  that  first  time  — twice  cro  tho 
first  days  of  October  — tho  white 
fiathcr  had  gleamed  before  his  eyes 
as  he  nearcd  homo ;  and  both 
times  in  tho  attendant  cavalier  he 
had  recognized  Guy  Devereux. 

Both  timis,  too,  something— he 
could  har.ily  delino  the  feeling — 
had  prevented  him  from  setting  all 
donht  at  rest,  and  making  cer- 
tainty doubly  sure.  He  had  no 
right.  ^Vhat  was  she  to  him?  Ah! 
more  than  he  had  over  dreamed  a 
woman  could  ho -more  than  he 
would  havo  acknowledged  to  him- 
self then. 

Helen  and  ho  were  left  much 
alone  together  just  now.  '  My  lady ' 
was  an  invalid,  and  Gertie  an<l  her 
lover  had  plenty  to  occupy  them. 
And  one  night,  when  he  had  argued 
himself  into  the  lielief  that  ho  could 
talk  on  tho  subject  gently  and 
firmly  and  wisely,  as  hecamo  one 
who  stood  towards  her  in  the  rela- 
tionship he  did,  iJar,  at  last,  spoko 
words  which  first  astonished,  and 
then  wounded  and  angered  Helen 
sorely. 

It  don't  much  matter  what  they 
were  to  us ;  but  wlien  he  and  liis 
cousin  parted  for  tho  night,  the  one 
f(,lt  they  were  words  it  would  be 
very  hard  to  forget  or  to  forgive  ;  the 
other,  that  ho  liad  been  wrong  in 
uttering  them  at  all  —wrong  in 
thinking  sho  would  trust  him— a 
fool  for  hoKling  her  what,  in  spite 
of  all  till  now,  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
he  ha<l  held  her  to  be.  Another 
month  imssed ;  and  'the  Don'  l)o- 
gau  to  think  of  his  ])!(  pirations  for 
going  out  next  mail  to  rejoin.  It 
wius  tl;o  first  week  in  November  ; 
he  cou'd  catch  the  Mar.seilles  steamer 
of  the  tenth. 

So  he  fold  them  one  morning  that 
ln!  Wius  going.  It  was  sooner  than 
ho  need  go.      But  what  was  there 


Tlie  Wliife  Feather. 


521 


to  stay  longer  for?  Certainly  not  to 
witness  the  (Uixvicmmt  of  that 
mysterious  affair  between  Helen  and 
Guy  Deverenx.  Better,  he  thought, 
that  he  should  be  miles  away  if 
that  was  to  end  as  he  believed  it 
would. 

So  he  wouldn't  see  the  silent, 
wistful  pleading  of '  my  lady's '  fcice ; 
she  was  too  proud  to  ask  lier  son  to 
stay  in  England  for  her  sake;  so 
he  made  light  of  poor  Gertie's  en- 
treaties ;  and  misconstrued  Heltin's 
sudden  pallor,  and  the  look  that  in 
her  own  despite  came  into  the  dark 
■violet  eyes,  so  ti-ue,  though  as  he 
thought  so  false,  when  they  Itarned 
his  resolve.  And  yet  had  she  been 
all  he  remembered,  all  he  had  onco 
thought  her,  it  might  have  been 
different.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
so  hard  to  give  np  the  excitement 
of  his  soldier's  life,  and  the  brilliant 
work  '  Ours '  was  doing  far  away 
up  in  the  '  north-west,'  if  he  had 
found  the  dream  which,  hard,  and 
cynical,  and  selfish  as  he  might  be, 
he  had  dreamed  once  realized  in 
Cousin  Helen. 

But  that  was  not  to  be.  And  he 
hardened  his  heart,  bitterly.  Hard- 
ened it  against  those  he  loved,  and 
those  who  loved  him.  One  there 
jvas  who  loved  him  more  than  they 
all— one  whose  love  he  was  flinging 
blindly  away — who  had  deemed 
that  Words  of  his  had  wronged  her 
past  forgiveness;  but  who  felt  all 
anger  die  in  her  when  she  knew  she 
was  so  soon  to  lose  him. 

For  he  was  her  hero— unworthy 
of  her  perhaps,  as  he  was,  and,  to 
her,  greater,  better,  nobler  than  all 
others. 

If  he  had  misjudged  her,  she 
couldn't  hate  him.  If  he  had 
wronged  her.  she  could  pardon.  For 
through  all  she  loved  him. 

It  w^as  a  cruel,  hard  ti'Sne  for 
'  La  Fee  Blanche,'  those  last  few 
days  of  '  the  Don's '  stay  at  Lau- 
reston.  But  it  was  almost  worse 
for  him. 

Have  you  ever  known  how— 

•  To  be  wrath  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  woik  like  madness  in  the  brain  ?' 

He  was  wroth  with  her ;  though 
even  when  at  the  Maidlow  ball  she 
gave  Guy  Deverenx  the  valses  she 


had  kept  for  him,  and  which  ho 
wouldn't  ask  f.ir,  and  his  joidousy 
had  found  confirmfition  of  all  his 
suspicions  in  the  Plurigcr's  bearing 
towards  her;  even  when  he  called 
her  frankness  towards  himself  some- 
thing worse  than  falseness,  when  he 
tried  to  hate,  he  loved  her  most. 

And  now  they  were  to  part,  sun- 
dered by  a  doubt,  a  suspicion,  that 
seemed  flimsy  enough,  but  which  to 
this  man  was  irrefutable. 

He  thought  of  this  that  afternoon 
which  was  to  be  his  last  at  Lau- 
reston  as  he  walked  along  a  narrow 
path  in  the  Pleasaunce,  his  feet  rust- 
ling among  the  sere  yellow  leaves 
that  lay  thick  upon  the  ground. 

It  was  a  favourite  lounge  for  out- 
door smoking  purposes,  that  little 
skilfully  -  arranged  wood  which 
bounded  the  deer-park  on  one  side, 
and  stretched  away  for  a  mile  or  so 
in  the  direction  of  The  Place. 

Dar  strolled  moodily  along,  his 
hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  shoot- 
ing-jacket, and  the  smoke  from  his 
hruh-yucide  curling  in  blue  clouds 
in  the  still,  mild  air. 

It  might  be  the  last  time  he 
should  ever  walk  there ;  to-morrow 
he  would  be  gone.  In  his  bitter- 
ness-of  spirit  he  wished  he  had 
never  come  to  Laureston,  never 
seen  her  face — never,  as  little  by 
little  he  had  done,  learned  to  love 
her  with  the  last  love  of  his  life. 

Proof-armoured,  as  they  who 
knew  him  best  would  have  deemed 
him,  he  had  gone  down  before  a 
woman's  weapons  like  another  man ; 
had  been  tricked  by  a  fair  face,  and 
a  false  smile,  and  lying  lips,  and 
treacherous  eyes,  like  even  unto 
those  at  whom  he  had  been  wont  to 
make  mock.  Vanquished  ?  '  No  ! 
not  quite !'  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth,  set  hard  on  the  amber  mouth- 
piece. 'She  don't  know  of  this 
cursed  folly.  It'll  bo  my  own  fault 
if  she  ever  does.  It's  all  over  now. 
She  and  I  will  never  meet  again. 
Bah !  Am  I  a  child,  to  be  as  weak 
as  this?'  And  Dar  laughed  bit- 
terly. 

On  a  sudden  his  face  changed, 
and,  with  a  curse,  he  halted,  and 
drove  his  heel  savagely  into  the  turf. 

Half-a-dozen  paces  from  him,  with 
its  bridle  flung  over  a  leafless  branch. 


nn.n 


Tie  White  Ffnthcr. 


watch inff  liim  mil  of  its  great,  d(  lji 
eyes,  st<ioil  a  lu)r>e  lie  kiicv  only  too 
well.  It  was  '  Kavt  uswing,'  Guy 
Deverenx's  rliargcr.  The  rificr 
onuKI  not  bo  far  off.  Wlmt  was  ho 
doing  here?  '  Tlie  Don'  guessed 
easily  en<iui;li. 

II is  riglit  linnrl  clenched,  as  thongh 
ho  would  have  liked  to  dash  it  in 
DoveroMx's  f ice  —  this  mnn,  for 
whose  sake  Helen,  his  Helen,  had 
fitcopcd  to  falsehood  and  deceit— in 
a  paroxysm  of  jealous  rage  worthy 
of  the  love-njania  of  a  boy.  That 
WHS  Boon  over.  Men  who  have  lived 
his  life,  if  th(y  can't  exorcise,  at 
lea'-t  !(nrn  to  keep  in  hand  the  devil 
they  know  to  be  withiu  tluni.  And 
the  look  that  was  not  good  to  see 
only  just  swept  across  '  the  Don's' 
face,  and  loft  t'lo  hard  smile  a  little 
harder  under  the  black  nioivstache. 

But  this  tiuic,  at  all  events,  ho 
^^ould  meet  her  face  to  face.  Ho 
bad  not  long  to  wait. 

Standing  a  little  back  from  tho 
winding  pathway,  hidden  by  tho 
gnarled  trunk  of  tlio  king  oak,  al- 
u  ady  be  eould  see  the  gleam  of  the 
white  feather,  as  tho  wearer  of  the 
velvet  toque  he  knew  so  well  came 
towards  him,  in  clo.so  and  confidin- 
lial  converse  with  Dovcrciii  the 
Plunger. 

IIo  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  stood 
motionlt'Ks  as  the  trunk  he  leaned 
H  gain  St. 

'  Ravenswing'  pricked  his  cars, 
and  whinnied,  as  his  master  camo 
round  the  last  turn  of  the  path ; 
and  Dar  lifted  his  eyes  then  and 
saw — what  made  him  start  and  palo 
to  tho  very  lips. 

IIo  saw  tl  0  velvet  toque,  and  tho 
h.ng  white  feather,  and  the  long 
Ktreamers  floating  behind;  but  in- 
^tcad  of  Helen  Treherne's  fair  hair, 
it  was  Flora  Iloddesdon's  durk 
braids  that  curled  beneath  it — her 
fujo,  and  not  his  couBin's,  that  ho 
looked  upon. 

Laughing  lightly  at  something 
fiuy  was  sjiying  to  her,  Flora  passed 
by,  and  Btoud  patting  tho  horse's 
arching  neck  when  the  rider  was  in 
the  fad<lle,  and  exclianging  a  tender 
adieu  cro  he  rode  away.  Then,  aft(  r 
one  quick  glance  about  her,  Flora 
moved  off  in  her  turn,  and  Dar  was 
idono    with    his    rli.-covery.      Tho 


simpl.)  truth  was  plain  at  !.irt. 
This  was  the  shadow  his  cynicitjiu 
and  mistrust  had  let  him  make  a 
reality;  this  was  tlio  miserable 
cause  of  the  wrong  ho  had  done  the 
woman  ho  had  learned  to  love — 
done,  not  so  nuich  by  tho  words  he 
had  spoken,  a^  by  tlio  thoughts  he 
had  thought  of  lior.  This  wretched 
error  was  driving  him  from  her  now 
— had,  perhaps,  sundered  them  for 
ever. 

I  don't  think  I  need  tell  you  all 
that  pasi-ed  through  his  mind  as  he 
walked  back— all  tho  feelings  of 
self-reproach,  regret,  repentance,  not 
unmingled  with  somethinu  akin  to 
hapjiinoss.  There  was  lin]ip:nes8 
for  him  at  least  in  this,  that  Fee 
had  never  merited  the  ill  he  had 
dared  think  of  her  byword  or  deed; 
that  she  had  been  right,  and  he 
wrong.  This  much  ho  would  tell 
her  lii'foro  he  left  Laun  ston,  and 
ask  of  her  what  it  was  his  wont  to 
ask  of  none  — forgiveness. 

lb)  found  her  presently  in  the 
library,  and  alone.  He  opened  the 
door  so  noiselessly  that  she  never 
raised  her  head.  She  was  sitting  on 
a  low  seat  before  the  flickering  wood 
lire,  half  in  tlio  light,  Ijalf  in  the 
shadow,  bending  a  littlo  forward, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  hand. 

At  her  ftet  lay  Dar's  bloodhound, 
'Odin,'  watching  her  with  loving, 
wistful  eyes.  w 

Tho  other  end  of  tho  long  oak- 
panelled  room,  where  Dar  stooil,wa8 
all  in  semi-darknesK,  and,  by  the 
gleam  of  the  burning  brands,  ho 
could  see  every  detail  of  tho  picture 
before  him.  Uo  could  see  the  shim- 
mer of  Fee's  golden  hair  as  tho  light 
fell  on  it;  ho  could  see  the  palo,  sad 
look  upon  her  fair  face;  tho  lltful 
flash  of  the  opals  in  a  ring,  his  gift, 
which  she  wore  upon  tho  hand  that 
rc.sti  d  on  '  Odin's'  head. 

IIo  saw  and  marked  all  this  as  he 
stopped  a  moment  near  the  door- 
way, still  and  silent,  feeling,  by  tho 
keenness  of  his  remorse,  how  great 
wa.s  tho  wrong  he  had  done  lior, 
even  in  his  love.  But  the  blood- 
hound moved  uneasily,  conscious  of 
Jii-i  master's  presence  there;  and 
Helen,  roused  from  h<r  reverie, 
turned  and  looked  towards  him. 

Then  Dar  came  out  of  tho  d.irk- 


The  Private  L^fe  of  a  Public  Nuinance. 


223 


ne'R  into  the  lijilit,  and  she  f aw  who 

Sho  rose  hniTicdly,  as  if  to  go, 
while  lie  was  bciuliiiij:  over  his  dog, 
as  thougli  ho  hud  barely  noticed 
her. 

'Don't  go.  Fee!'  Dar  said,  when 
phe  had  iiiovcd  a  step  or  two  from 
liiui.  'Don't  run  away  from  me! 
I've  Ronietliing  to  tell  you,  if  you 
will  listen  to  nic.' 

Tlio  old  nanje,  the  old  tone.  What 
did  it  mean?  She  had  ^topi)ed  when 
lie  spoke,  and  waited,  without  a 
word,  for  him  to  go  on.  And  ho 
went  on,  and  made  his  atonement — 
such  {itonement  as  ho  could— and 
liis  confet;h.ion  unflinchirigly,  kaning 
his  arm  upon  the  high,  carved  man- 
telpiece, and  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  face,  trying  to  read  his  sentence 
there.  KvA  so  Helen  learned  at 
last  what  had  been  keeping  them  so 
long  asunder. 

'  Fee,  can  you  forgive  me  ?' 

She  answered  him  never  a  word, 
but  she  gave  him  her  hand — Ihe 
hand  tliat  wore  the  opal  ring. 


Then  Dar  spoke  again,  with  all 
the  pafesion  that  was  in  bim  And 
Fee  leaviicd  f^ometliing  more — some- 
thing that  made  full  amends  to  her 
fur  all  tlie  njiscry  of  thof-e  last  days. 

ITo  was  telling  her — her  hero, 
whom  she  thought  to  ])art  fi-om  so 
miserably  on  the  morrow— that  ho 
loved  her  ;  asking  so  eiigcrly,  so 
passionately,  with  look  aiici  voice  so 
changed  she  hardly  knew  him,  if 
sho  could  trust  herself,  alter  all,  to 
him  and  his  love  for  the  time  to 
come ;  asking  if  he  should  go  or 
stay.  Slowly,  as  his  strong  right 
arm  closed  round  and  c'asped  her 
to  him,  the  golden  head  sank  down 
upon  his  shoulder,  till  her  face,  sad 
and  pale  no  longer,  was  half  hidden 
from  him  there;  and,  as  he  bent 
OTer  her,  tlie  answer  to  all  his 
pleading  came  in  tliesc  low-whi'j- 
pered  words  — 

'Stay,  for  me,  Dar!  I  have  loved 
you  all  my  life!' 

And  here,  I  think,  had  better  end 
the  story  of  the  White  Feather. 
'  Euy.' 


THE  PEIVATE  LIFE  OF  A  PUBLIC  KUISANCE. 


IT  is  no  uncommon  thing  with  folks 
of  an  ingenious  turn  to  make 
'  capital,'  as  the  saying  is,  out  of 
what  at  first  sight  seems  calamity. 
As,  for  instance,  a  friend  of  mine,  an 
Alpine  traveller,  and  an  indefati- 
gable naturalist,  whilst  on  a  journey 
of  exploration  in  his  favourite  moun- 
tainous region,  one  night  retired  to 
his  couch  exhausted  by  the  fatigues 
of  march  and  faint  for  sleep.  It 
was  denied  him,  however.  Not  that 
'  Nature's  soft  nurse '  was  ill-dis- 
posed towards  him;  not  that  his 
conscience  was  ill  at  ease  ;  not  that 
he  had  supped  rashly  or  inordinately. 
It  was  because  he  was  wanted  for 
supjier.  That  ravenous  monster, 
the  Alpine  flea,  but  meagrely  fed 
through  many  months  on  hardy 
herdsmen  and  chamois  hunters, 
sniffed  his  tender  carcase,  and  with- 
oiit  even  the  warning  of  '  fe-fo-fi- 
fum,'  fell  on  him  from  the  roof 
rafters,  and  commenced  his  savage 
and  sanguinary  repast.  A  man  of 
common  mind  and  courage  v/ould 


have  engaged  the  enemy  until  ex- 
hausted, and  then  yielded  at  discre- 
tion. Not  so  my  friend.  He  .struck 
a  light,  and  calculating  his  chances 
of  a  night's  rest,  and  finding  the 
balance  heavily  against  him,  he 
coolly  dressed  himself,  and  unpack- 
ing his  microscopical  instruments, 
selected  and  impaled  a  few  of  the 
largest  and  finest  of  his  tormentors, 
and  passed  a  pleasant  and  profitable 
night  in  investigating  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  form  and  structure  of 
pidcx  irritans.  There  is  no  knowing 
how  much  of  ingenuity  dwells  in 
the  human  brain  till  it  is  pressed 
between  the  hard  mill-stoncs  of  ne- 
cessity. Before  now,  despairing 
captives  have  beguiled  the  tedium 
of  dungeon  life  by  a  study  of  the 
habits  and  manners  of  the  very  rats 
which  at  first  were  so  much  their 
horror  and  aversion. 

I  have  an  enemy  more  tormenting 
than  any  flea  that  ever  hopped — 
more  voracious  than  the  rat,  inas- 
much as  he  feeds  not  on  my  bread 


224 


The  Pvi'mte  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


aud  my  chccso,  but  on  my  brain.  1 
have  little  mouths  to  till,  and  littlo 
lect  to  cover,  ami  little  backs  to 
clothe ;  I  have  house-rent  to  pay, 
and  water-rate ;  I  have  to  contribute 
sbillinps  and  ])()ttnds  towards  the 
maintenance  of  the  jioor,  and  the 
police,  and  the  main  drainage ;  I 
have  to  jirovide  against  the  visit  of 
the  income-tax  collector;  and  to 
meet  these  various  demands,  being  a 
scribbler  0.  the  hard-working  sort,  I 
am  compelled  to  set  ray  pen  dancing 
over  the  paper  with  considerable 
rapidity  and  ])erscverance.  And  I 
am  very  willing  to  do  so.  I  am 
willing  to  sit  down  in  the  morning 
early  as  any  tailor  or  cobbler,  and 
make  my  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 
But  this  my  tornientiDr  forbids.  He, 
too,  has  hay  to  make  while  the  sun 
shines,  lie  makes  his  hay  out  of 
my  green  hopes,  sapped  and 
withered ;  he  p^'inds  my  brain  to 
make  him  bread.  He  bestrides  my 
sober  pen,  all  .^iidden  and  unexpected, 
as  it  is  ])lod(ling  industriously  over 
the  paper,  and  sets  it  jigging  to  the 
tune  of  'Hop  Light  Loo'  or  the 
'  Katcatcher's  Daughter.'  He  tills 
the  patient,  well-intentioned  quill 
with  the  jingling  idiotcy  common  in 
the  mouths  of  banjo-playing,  bone- 
rattling  Sand)os  and  Miunbos,  and 
turns  the  common  sense  al)out  to  be 
uttered  by  it  into  twaddle  and  pro- 
fitless nonsense.  He  breaks  into  my 
storehouse  of  thought  and  turns  its 
contents  top.sy-turvy.  He  seizes  my 
golden  hours,  and  condemns  them  to 
a  lingering  and  horrible  death,  maul- 
ing them  and  pulling  them  into 
Hinders,  and  leaving  me  to  make  the 
best  I  may  of  the  few  minutes  liis 
monkey  misdiief  has  left  entire. 
The  name  of  this  blowfly  in  my 
larder,  this  weevil  in  my  meal-jar,  is 
Organ  (Irinder. 

It  is,  of  coun-o,  well  known  to  mo 
that,  in  accordance!  with  a  recent  Act 
of  Parliament,  I  am  at  liberty  to  set 
the  engine  of  law  in  motion  to  crush 
the  organ  man  if  he  annoys  me ;  but 
there  is  a  iM)Wer  nuich  greater  than 
any  Act  of  Parliament  ever  pas.'-cd 
and  backed  by  it.  My  tormentor 
luay  grin  defiance  at  his  arch- 
enemy, iJas.s.  No  less  true  than 
pamdoxical,  the  Kuporior  power  in 
question  consi.sts  inaweakne.s.s— the 


weakness  inherent  in  every  free-born 
Knglishman,  to  succour  all  .such  as 
he  may  find  downtrodden  aud  driven 
to  the  wall.  H'A//  downtrodden  is 
a  question  which  the  noble-minded 
Briton  never  stops  to  impiire.  It  is 
enough  that  a  jtoor  fellow  is  dowu, 
to  enlist  for  him  the  Briton's  heartiest 
sym])athies.  Never  mind  how  richly 
he  may  have  merited  the  shoulder 
hit  that  laid  him  low,  he  has  only  to 
groan  plaintively  as  he  lies  in  the 
mire— to  whine  a  little,  and  beseech 
pity,  and  a  hundred  hands  are 
stretched  forth  to  lift  him  up,  and  a 
hundred  mouths  are  opened  to  cry 
'Poor  fellow!'  There  is  ointment 
for  his  bruises  in  shape  of  a  gather- 
ing of  money,  and  he  is  set  on  his 
legs  and  hailed  as  a  man  and  a  bro- 
ther. Who  did  it  ?  A  parcel  of 
stuck-up,  purse-proud,  bloated  aris- 
tocrats! Why  don't  you  hit  ono 
your  own  .size?  Hit  him  again,  if 
you  dare.  This  noble  setliment 
has  been  of  immense  service  to  the 
downtrodden  organ  griiidcr.  The 
law,  acting  in  behalf  of  O.  G.'s  suf- 
fering victims,  having  knocked  O.  G. 
down,  the  highniinded  but  tough- 
skinned  British  mob  has  set  him  up 
again,  and  taken  him  under  its 
special  protection.  I  have  no  in- 
clination to  dispute  its  right  to  do 
so.  It  admires  organ  grinding.  To 
lie  sure,  the  fact  of  its  utter  indif- 
ference to  the  exi.stence  of  barrel- 
organs  and  hurdy-gurdies  before  the 
jja.^sing  of  the  Act  is  calculated  to 
give  ri.se  to  the  suspicion  that  pig- 
headed obstinacy  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  but  there  is 
nothing  for  certain.  The  miller  who 
could  sleep  tranquilly  while  his  mill 
was  clashing  and  cruncliing  and 
rumbling,  awoke  the  moment  the 
mill  sto])pcd  The  mob  is  the  best 
judge  of  what  suits  it.  It  likes  its 
music  full  flavoured,  and  with 
plenty  of  grit  in  it.  A  weaker  (jua- 
lity  falls  idly  on  its  tympanum. 
Some  animals  are  so  thin-skinned 
that  the  titillation  of  a  hair  will 
drive  them  to  madiiiss,  whereas  the 
rhinoceros  delights  to  have  his  hide 
rasped  with  the  prongs  of  a  pitch- 
fork ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  the 
rhinoceros  should  not  be  tickled  if 
he  likes  it. 
So  it  comes  alx)ut  that  the  organ 


The  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


226 


grinder  finds  in  the  nolice  of  eject- 
ment that  was  served  on  him  a  new 
lease.  But  a  few  months  since  lie 
was  a  skulking,  surly  wretch,  with  a 
heavy  tread,  a  hanging  head,  and 
the  general  air  of  a  felon,  hopeless  as 
to  this  life,  and  by  no  means  com- 
fortably assured  of  the  next ;  a  broad- 
shouldered  muscular,  doomed  for 
some  monstrous  iniquity  to  tramp 
the  highways  and  byeways  of  a 
foreign  land,  fettered  eternally  to  a 
demon  of  discord — a  lunatic  Orjjheus 
riding  him  old-man-ot-the-sea-wise, 
torturing  his  sensitive  ear,  and 
mocking  his  weariness  with  '  funny ' 
music  worthy  of  St.  George's-in-the 
Fields,  or,  at  the  very  least,  of  Karls- 
wood.  A  treacherous,  lean  dog, 
ready  for  a  halfpenny  to  mow  and 
grin  and  show  his  teeth  to  win, the 
smiles  of  little  children  at  the  win- 
dow, and  equally  ready,  should  he 
be  rashly  informed  that  the  little 
ones  are  ill,  to  haggle  and  make 
terms  as  to  his  consenting  to  cease 
from  racking  their  poor  little 
heads  with  his  horrible  din ;  a  worse 
than  ghoule,  hunting  for  sickness 
that  he  might  make  a  meal  of  it, 
with  vulture  eyes  for  sadly  droops 
ing  window-blinds  and  muffled 
knockers,  and  a  keen  scent  for  mer- 
cifully-strewn tan, that  the  wooden 
leg  of  his  engine  of  torture  may  find 
standing  in  the  midst  of  it. 

Distinguished  by  such  unamiable 
characteristics,  it  was  impossible  to 
love  the  organ  man;  still,  seeing 
him  go  about  so  evidently  conscious 
of  his  own  unworthiness,  so  down- 
cast and  depressed,  and  altogether 
miserable,  your  indignation  was  not 
unfrequently  tinctured  with  pity, 
and  you  had  at  least  the  gratification 
of  noting  that,  however  much  he 
plagued  and  tormented  you,  he 
never  appeared  to  get  any  satisfac- 
tion out  of  the  transaction  beyond 
the  grudged  penny  flung  to  him. 
But  since  he  has  been  '  persecuted  ' 
the  aspect  of  the  case  has  become 
altogether  altered.  The  organ 
grinder  is  no  longer  a  glum  villain 
serving  his  term  of  life  as  though  it 
were  a  punishment,  and  not  a  pri- 
vilege. The  dull  dead  log  has 
sprouted  green  leaves,  and  become 
quite  a  sprightly  member  of  society. 
True,  he  has  not  given  up  the  ghoule 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIII. 


business,  nor  tlic  lean  dog  business, 
but  now  he  is  a  ghoule  in  a  cu1>- 
away  coat  in  place  of  a  sliroud;  the 
lean  dog  cocks  his  cars,  and  carries 
his  tail  with  an  insolent  and  defiant 
curl  in  it.  He  is  a  man  and  a  bro- 
ther in  pursuit  of  his  honest  calling. 
He  has  music  to  vend  in  ha'porths 
and  penn'orths;  and  if  you  don't 
choose  to  buy,  there  are  plenty  of 
householders  in  your  street  that  will. 
Don't  put  yourself  out  of  the  way, 
my  dear  sir;  don't  stand  there  at 
your  parlour  window  sliaking  your 
head,  and  frowning,  and  making 
threatening  gestures ;  he  is  not  play- 
ing for  ijour  edification ;  he  is  playing 
to  the  people  next  door  but  one ; 
they  are  his  regular  customers,  and 
take  a  penn'orth  of  music  of  him 
every  morning  as  regularly  as  they 
take  a  penn'orth  of  dog's  meat  for 
Mungo.  A  pretty  thing,  indeed,  that 
you  should  presume  to  order  him 
ofi  just  because  you  don't  happen  to 
like  music !  You  might  as  reason- 
ably prohibit  the  dog's-meat  man 
from  calling  at  number  thirteen  be- 
cause nobody  on  your  premises  has 
an  appetite  for  dog's  meat.  This  is 
the  argument  provided  for  the  organ 
grinder  by  his  noble  champions  and 
supporters,  and  he  is  not  slow  to 
avail  himself  of  it.  How  can  you  be 
out  of  temper  with  a  poor  fellow 
who  knows  not  a  word  of  the  lan- 
guage in  which  you  are  abusing  him, 
and  therefore  cannot  retaliate?  It 
is  mean,  it  is  cowardly,  it  is  un- 
English.  It  would  not  be  surprising 
if  he  turned  round  on  you  and  pelted 
you  with  such  broken  bits  of  Eng- 
lish as  he  is  master  of.  But  he  is  a 
good-humoured  fellow,  and  does 
nothing  of  the  kind ;  if  you  shake  a 
stick  at  him,  he  replies  by  thrusting 
out  his  tongue,  and  making  a  funny 
face  at  you.  If  you  appear  at  your 
gate  and  order  him  off,  he  is  moved 
to  no  worse  than  playfully  applying 
his  thumb  to  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and 
twiddlmg  his  outstretched  fingers. 
Yah!  Go  in.  Stuffyour  ears  with  wool. 
It  will  be  quite  time  enough  for  him  to 
go  when  he  sees  you  rushing  down 
the  street  in  search  of  a  policeman. 
Even  if  you  have  the  good  luck  to 
find  one  in  time,  and  the  courage  to 
give  the  ruffian  into  custody  (which 
means  accompanying  the  '  charge ' 


*Ji6 


The  Private  Life  of  a  rnhlic  Ntiisnnco. 


to  tho  stfttinn-liousc,  and  l)cing 
hooted  and  cliaiTLMl  by  the  orpaii 
grinder's  friend,  tlio  mob,  nil  tlio 
way  you  go),  you  will  i)rol'ftbIy  find 
the  game  hardly  worth  the  candle. 
The  jirisoiier  does  not  know  one 
word  of  Kn.i,'!ish,  explains  the  inter- 
preter to  the  nm;:iKtrate,  and  was 
quite  unaware  that  the  gentleman 
wished  him  ♦<>  1:0  away.  But,  savs 
hir>  worship,  tlie  gentleman  states 
that  he  took  the  trouble  to  come  out 
into  his  parden  to  motion  you  away. 
That  is  true,  replies  the  interpreter, 
after  referring  his  worship's  reinark.s 
to  the  now  deeply  penitent  grinder, 
but  the  prisoner  misunderstood — 
ho  thought  tiiat  the  gentleman  was 
come  out  to  dance. 

It  may  orcur  to  the  inexperienced 
that  all  this  is  most  unnecessary 
fuss,  the  remedy  for  the  alleged 
grievance  being  so  obvious.  Tho 
organ  grinder  is  no  f(X)I ;  all  ho 
seeks  is  your  penny,  and  cares  not 
how  little  he  does  for  it;  what, 
therefore,  can  be  easier  than  to  save 
your  time  and  your  terajter  by 
sending  him  out  so  paltry  a  sum 
with  the  civil  message  that  you 
won't  trouble  hira  to  play.  You 
may  he  making  some  sacrifice  of 
priuci])le,  it  may  cause  you  momen- 
tiiry  annoyance  to  suspect  that  your 
enemy  grins  as  he  turns  fnmi  your 
gate  with  your  penny  in  his  pocket, 
but  l(jok  on  the  other  side  of  the 
question!  Tho  blow-fly  bamshed 
from  your  larder,  your  meal-jar  freed 
from  tho  devouring  weevil,  your 
quill  rescued  from  its  impish  rider, 
your  golden  hours  round  and  sound 
and  all  your  own! 

You  are  right,  oh  innocent  adviser ! 
Cheap,  dirt  cheaj)  would  it  be  if,  on 
payment  of  a  penny,  immunity  from 
persecution  might  U:  purchased. 
It  would  be  a  stroke  of  business  on 
the  accoiiipli.sliment  of  which  wo 
might  well  lie  ftroud  if  one  bought 
off  the  whole  brigand  army  at  a  like 
figure.  lUil  Ujwaie  of  the  pitfall ! 
Should  you  Ih)  weak  enough  to 
vield  that  i'w^t  sinyle  penny  your 
dfxim  is  f-ealid.  It  is  merely  a 
liushiiig  ftc  entitling  you  to  rank 
amongst  the  organ  man's  regular 
cnstomers.  The  torturer  will  now 
regard  himself  as  n  gulaily  engnged, 
and  exactly  a  week  from  the  timu 


when  you  committed  the  fatal  error, 
ho  will  turn  uj)  again,  his  counte- 
nance beaming  with  a  smile  of  recog- 
nition as  you  amazedly  look  out  on 
him  from  your  wunlow,  and  he  won't 
budge  until  ho  gets  his  jn-nny.  Nor 
is  this  all.  You  are  duly  reported 
at  the  head-quarters  of  tlie  sworn 
brotherhood  of  grinilers  as  another 
to  the  long  list  of  vicfims  willing  to 
pay  for  j)eaco,  and  for  the  future  no 
organ  or  hunly-gurdy  bearer  will 
pass  your  door  without  giving  you 
the  opportunity  for  exercising  your 
philanthropy.  There  is  no  cure  for 
the  evil ;  organ-giinditighasl)ecomo 
a  settled  institution  of  tho  country, 
and  as  such  must  Ik;  endured. 

And  having  arrived  at  this  con- 
viction comes  in  the  example  of  the 
Alpino  traveller  quoted  at  the 
commencement  of  this  paper — of 
the  poor  prisoner  wh)  beguiled  tho 
tedium  of  incarceration  by  an  exa- 
mination of  the  habits  and  manners 
of  the  rats  which  at  first  were  his 
horror.  Might  I  not  be  U;tter  cm- 
ployed  than  to  sit  mojiing  in  my 
chaml)er  with  vinegar  rags  adorning 
my  throbbing  temi)les  l>ecause  of 
the.so  Italian  rats  squealing  under 
my  windr)w?  Were  their  habits  and 
cush)ms  less  intere^ting  than  thoi^c 
of  the  foiir-leggeil  vermin  ?  Did  I 
know  more  about  one  t'lan  the 
other?  Decidedly;  but  tho  advan- 
tage was  with  the  quadru|iedal 
animal.  I  <h  happen  to  know 
something  about  mns  ihciiminm^.  I 
know  that  its  hind  legs  are  longer 
than  its  front  ones,  that  it  has  a 
projiensity  for  burrowing  under 
wails,  and  that  it  connnonly  sits  on 
its  hind  legs  ami  holds  tlio  fooil  it 
cats  in  its  fore  paws.  I  know  that 
its  nature  is  very  cunning;  that, 
acting  in  concert,  rats  has-o  been 
observed  to  cart  off  uni'roken  eggs 
from  a  basket,  one,  acting  as  '  cart,' 
lying  on  his  back  ami  cradling  tho 
egg  between  liis  fon;  paws,  while  two 
other  rats,  acting  as  teiunsters,  have 
dragged  home  the  'curt'  by  its  tail. 
I  have  heanl,  and  place  ecpnil  reli- 
ance in,  the  story  of  the  rat  that 
emptied  a  narrow  flask  of  oil  by 
lowering  his  caudal  appendage,  into 
if,  withdrawing  it,  licking  it  clean, 
lowering  it  again,  and  soon.  I'lit  I 
don't  know  half  as  much  about  tho 


The  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance, 


227 


organ  grinder.  That  his  fore  limbs 
are  shorter  timn  his  lateral  may  be 
assumed,  but  what  about  his  bur- 
rowing? That  he  docs  burrow  is 
certain,  becaiise  during  certain  hours 
of  the  twenty-tour*ie,  happily,  disap- 
pears. He  must  have  a  home  some- 
where. He  is  met  at  all  hours  of 
the  day  as  far  away  as  Highgate, 
Hammersmith,  and  Sydenham,  but 
come  night  wherever  he  may  be,  he  is 
mvariably  tound  to  be  turning  his 
steps  in  a  north-westerly  direction. 
However  far  away,  he  is  rarely  seen 
refreshing  himself  at  an  inn  ;  ho  was 
never  yet  known  to  apply  for  a  bed 
at  the  wayside  country  public- 
house.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  made 
such  an  applicationwhether  it  would 
be  entertained.  H' a  man  on  horse- 
back applied  for  lodging  the  matter 
might  be  easily  arranged,  the  man 
to  his  chamber  and  the  horse  to  the 
stable  ;  but  a  man  with  an  organ ! 
They  are  inseparable.  He  is  an 
organ  man — a  man  with  an'  organ 
on  his  back,  as  other  unfortunates 
have  a  lump  on  theirs — with  the 
diflference  that  the  former,  for  busi- 
ness purposes,  admits  of  being  occa- 
sionally slewed  round  to  the  front 
part  of  the  man's  body.  Fancy 
letting  a  clean  and  decent  bed  to  a 
man  with  an  organ  on  his  back  ! 

Then  as  to  the  grinder's  family. 
Has  he  a  wife  and  children  ?  How  do 
they  employ  themselves?  Are  the 
white-mice  boys  and  the  guinea-pig 
boys,  the  monkey- boys  and  the  boys 
•with  the  hurdy-gurdies  the  organ 
grinder's  children?  Are  those  his 
daughters  who  go  about  with  a  silk 
handkerchief  about  their  heads, 
singing  and  playing  on  a  tambou- 
rine? Where  is  his  wife?  Is  she 
still  to  be  found  working  in  the 
vineyards  of  the  sunny  South,  or 
does  slie  reside  with  her  '  old  man  ' 
on  Saffron  Hill,  occupying  a  snug 
little  room,  ironing  the  grmder's 
shirts  and  mending  his  stockings  and 
preparing  something  comforting  and 
savoury  for  the  poor  fellow's  supper, 
when  at  midnight  he  stumps  in  from 
Sydenham  or  15rentford  ?  Does  Mrs. 
Grinder  ever  go  out  washing  or 
charing  to  eke  out  her  husband's 
earnings?  What  were  his  earnings? 
Did  the  little  Grin'lers  go  to  school  ? 
Was  it  all  work  ana  no  play  with 


father  Grinder?  or  did  ho  occasion- 
ally take  his  pipe  and  his  pint  and 
seek  diversion  like  another  working 
man? 

1  had  frequently  observed  that 
the  organ  grinder  ceased  from  liis 
persecution  earlier  on  Saturday  than 
all  the  other  days  of  the  week.  On 
other  evenings  he  was  to  bo 
heard  as  late  as  ten  and  even  eleven 
o'clock ;  but  on  Saturdays,  even 
though  you  wanted  an  organ-man,  u. 
would  be  difficult  indeed  to  find  one 
after  four  or  tive  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. How  was  this  ?  Was  Satur- 
day evening  an  'off-time'  with  the 
grinder?  Was  he  a  patron  of  the 
Saturday  half  holiday  movement? 
If  so,  how  did  he  profit  by  the  in- 
dulgence ?  Did  he  belong  to  some 
corps  of  volunteers?  not  likely. 
Did  he  make  one  of  four  for  a  quick 
pull  up  the  rivtr?  He  could  not 
well  accomplish  such  a  feat  without 
divesting  himself  of  that  peculiarly 
blue  corderoy  jacket  of  his ;  and  the 
sight  of  an  organ-man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  is  one  that  never  yet  met 
human  gaze.  Did  he  take  a  cheap 
excursion  ticket  and  go  to  the  Isle 
of  Wight  or  Margate?  What!  with- 
out his  organ  ?  Preposterous.  How 
did  he  spend  the  only  work-a-day 
evening  he  could  spare  from 
drudgery  ?  The  only  way  to  set  the 
question  at  rest  was  by  personal  in- 
vestigation. No  time  like  the 
present,  which  happened  to  be  a 
Saturday  afternoon. 

Putting  on  a  slouchy  coat  and  a 
slouchy  cap,  I  at  once  set  out  for 
Saffron  Hill,  making  it  my  business 
to  call  on  my  road  for  an  artist 
friend  whose  sketches  have  often 
delighte  1  the  readers  of  this  maga- 
zine. My  pretence  for  desiring 
his  company  was  that  there  was  a 
probability  of  his  finding  a  picture 
worth  sketcliing  in  some  one  of  the 
many  strange  places  I  purposed 
t.king  him  to;  but  my  main  object 
in  soliciting  his  company  was  that 
1  might  be  benefited  by  his  pro- 
tection in  the  event  of  my  being 
forced  into  doubtful  company — our 
ai  tist  being  a  man  of  extraordinary 
size  and  muscular  development. 

It  was  a  lonely  evening  for  such 
a  wild-goose  chase  as  was  ours — 
dark  over  head,  miry  under  foot, 
Qa 


228 


The  Piirote  Life  of  a  PuhUc  Nuisance. 


and  (Irizzlinp;  wretchedly  of  min.  I 
call  it  II  wild-pocisoclmso,  and  it  was 
little  less,  for  ln-vond  the  populnrly- 
acccptid  Ixlief  tliiit  tlie  home  of  tlio 
organ  grinder  was  '  somewlicre  in 
tho  Dtiphl'onrhood  of  llatton 
Garden,'  \^e  w<.re  in  utter  ipnoraiico 
of  the  alidinp  place  of  the  iudividuul 
of  who'.n  we  were  in  search,  llatt^n 
Garden,  as  tho  reader  is  possibly 
aware,  is  a  long  and  wide  stnet 
opening  from  the  crown  of  Holborn 
Hill. 

At  7  p.m.,  tho  dnrlcncps  and  tho 
drizzling  rain  nothiig  abated,  wo 
arrived  at  llatton  (j  inkn,  and  dili- 
gently perainhulalid  that  lengthy 
and  retired  street  from  this  end  to 
tho  other,  but  either  in  or  out  of 
harness  not  a  solitary  organ  man 
did  we  ircet.  I  fay  out  of  harness 
on  my  companion's  account,  not 
mine  own  ;  he  was  quite  sure,  he 
said,  that  he  could  detect  an  organ- 
nmn  even  though  disguised  in  tho 
garb  of  a  Quaker.  No  opportunity, 
however,  for  a  display  of  his  extraor- 
dinary Fagacity  occurred;  and  wo 
arrival  at  the  end  of  llatton  Garden 
and  found  onrsolves  at  llatton  Wall, 
no  wiser,  as  far  as  the  object  of  our 
search  was  coTicerned,  than  when  wc 
turned  out  of  lIoll>orn. 

Hatton  Wall  is  by  no  means  a  nico 
place  for  a  stranger  to  tind  himself 
blindly  groping  about  on  a  dark 
Fel)ruary  night ;  indeed,  making  an 
allowance  of  f-ixty  per  cent,  for  time 
and  wealth,  I  should  l^  inclined  to 
say  it  was  one  of  tho  ugliest,  if  not 
the  most  ugly,  spots  in  London. 
There  may  be  uglier.  In  one's  pere- 
grinations round  about  London 
you  never  ki.ow  when  j'ou  have  ar- 
rived at  the  worst.  I  thought  I  had 
done  so  when  I  first  l)ehcld  XcaKs 
Buildings  in  Seven  Dials,  but  was 
fain  to  acknowledge  my  error  on  an 
investigation  of  iJrunswick  Street, 
RatclifTe  Highway,  and  even  this — 
the  hideously-renowned  Tiger  Bay 
— must,  as  I  afterwards  dii-covered, 
knock  under  to  Little  Keato  Street, 
Whitfchapel.  Yet  it  is  hard  to 
award  the  ]>alm,  the  claim  to  tho 
supremacy  of  ugliness  Iteing  based 
each  on  different  grounds.  Neal's 
Buildings  is  nothing  wor.so  than  thn 
stronghold  of  Irish  squalor,  and  all 
manner  of  fdtbintss  and  rags  and 


beggary.      Tho    women   Fqnat   in 
groups  on  the  squel.hy  jiaveinent  of 
Ntal's    Buildings   on    hot  summer 
days,    airily   garbed,    and    with    a 
toothed   in.^truinent  of  horn  sleek- 
ing tlieir  golden  tres.ses,  and  smok- 
ing stumpy  ])ipcs,  and  singing  good 
ol<l  Iri.>;li  songs,  and  holding  cheerful 
converse   with   their  male  friends, 
some  sprawled  over  the  door  thresh- 
holds,    some   lounging  half  out  of 
first  and  second  floor  windows,  their 
shocks  of  fiery  hair  surmounted  by 
a  nightcap,  and  so   full   of  gaping 
and} awning  as  to  give  rise  to  tho 
suspicion     that    they    are  not  yet 
entirely  out  of  bed.     Tiger  Bay  is 
less  repulsive  at  first  sight ;  indeed, 
it  is  only  when  night  clo.ses  in,  and 
the  women,  turned  wild  l)east8,  leavo 
their  lairs  to  prowl  abroad  and  hunt 
for  sailors,  and  tho  born  whelps  and 
jackals  and  hyenas   in  man   shape 
congregate  and  lurk  in  washhouscs 
and    coal-holes,    ready    to    ponnco 
out  on' and  Iwat  and  worry  nigh  to 
death  the  hapless  wretch  the  females 
of  their  tribe  have  lured  to  the  com- 
mon   den,  that    Brunswick  Street 
appears  uglier  than  its  ncighlwurs. 
Little  Keato  Street,  again,  taken  as 
a  street,  is  not  particularly  ill-look- 
ing; and  the  traveller  might  inno- 
cently enough  take  itas  a  i)romising 
short  cut  to  eastern  parts  of  tho 
metroix>li.«.  Nevertheless  it  is  a  terri- 
ble street.  It  is  from  thence  that  the 
midnight  burglar  sallies   with  his 
little  sack  of '  tools'  and  his  bits  of 
wax  candle  and  his  lucifer  matches 
and  hislife-y)reserver.     The.so,  how- 
ever, are  amongst  tho  better  sort  of 
tenants  inhabiting    Koato  Street — 
fellows   who    can    pay    their    way 
hiindsomely,   and  being  to  a  man 
lil>eral  dogs— the  stay  of  any  poor 
wretch  of  their  acquaintance    who 
may  stand  in  urgent  need  of  assist- 
ance.    Ask  tho  8hoj)keepers  of  tho 
neighbourhood  —  ask    tho    butcher 
and  the  cheesemonger   concerning 
his  Keate  Street  customers !    If  they 
tell  you  as  they  told  mo  when  a  year 
or  so  since  it  was  my  business  to  l>o 
making  such  inquiries,  tluy  will  say 
that  they   livo   luxuriously.      'It's 
nothing,  bless  you,'  said  the  butcher, 
'  for  them  to  order  a  quarter  of  lamb 
—and  that  w'  ^n  it's  a  shilling  a 
pound— as  late  as  ton  o'clock,  to  bo 


TJie  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


229 


coolced  that  night  for  supper.  They 
like  thoir  nick-nacks  too,  and  often 
my  boy  is  running  all  over  the  town 
to  get  them  sweetbreads  for  break- 
fast.' '  You'd  think,  to  stand  atop  of 
the  street  and  take  a  view  of  it  both 
sides  of  the  way,  right  to  the  bottom, 
that  they  wouldn't  trouble  nie  much 
except  it  was  for  butter-scrapings  and 
bacon  hocks  and  that  sort  ot  thing,' 
said  the  cheesemonger ;  '  Lor'  bless 
you !  It  aia't  single,  no,  nor  yet 
double  Glo'ster  that'll  do  for  'em. 
It  must  be  best  Cheshire  or  none. 
Same  with  butter.  Same  with  ham 
and  eggs.  The  very  best  and  never 
mind  the  price  is  their  motto.'  The 
ruffians  of  Keate  Street,  however,  are 
not  all  of  this  superior  order.  The 
common  pickpocket  finds  a  home 
there,  anl  the  'smasher,*  and  the 
area  sneak,  anrl  the  '  snow  gatherer,' 
as  the  rascal  who  makes  the  thieving 
of  linen  his  special  study  poetically 
styles  himself ;  and,  worse  thati  all,  a 
swarm  of  likely  young  fellows  who 
as  yet  cannot  lay  claim  to  be  called 
robbers,  but  who  are  satisfactorily 
progressing  under  the  teaching  of 
Moss  Jacobs  and  Barney  Davis. 
If  roguery  stands  there  would  be  no 
approaching  Little  Keate  Street  by 
a  mile. 

I  should  not  like  to  say  that  Hat- 
ton  Wall  was,  in  a  Keate  Street 
sense,  as  ugly  as  Keate  Street.  I 
have  not  such  great  enmity  against 
the  organ  grinders  as  to  wish  that  it 
might  be.  To  look  at,  however,  it 
is  uglier:  a  horribly  dark,  dingy, 
antiquated  place,  all  gutter  and 
cobble-stones,  and  smelling  as  strong 
of  Irish  as  Neals  Buildings  itself. 
The  police,  as  we  observed,  went  in 
pairs ;  and  when  this  is  the  case  in 
a  neighbourhood,  you  may  mark  it 
as  one  in  which  it  would  be  unsafe 
to  openly  consult  your  gold  lever  in 
order  to  ascertain  the  time.  I  ven- 
tured the  insinuation  that  perhaps 
we  had  better  retrace  our  steps,  and 
come  again  some  other  night — some 
moonlight  night,  but  our  artist,  who 
is  as  brave  as  he  is  big,  at  once 
taunted  me  with  cowardice,  and  de- 
clared that  since  I  had  drawn  him 
into  the  mess  he  would  see  the  end 
of  it,  even  though  ho  searched  every 
nook  and  alley  in  the  place;  auJ 
immediately  proceeded  to  carry  out 


his  valiant  determination  by  inquir- 
ing of  a  little  boy,  that  moment 
emerging  from  a  scowling  little 
public-house  near  Bleeding  Hart 
Yard,  hugging  agin  bottle,  whether 
he  would  be  so  obliging  as  to  inform 
us  where  the  organ  men  were  to  be 
found. 

The  little  fellow  replied  that  he 
was  jiggered  if  he  knew;— that  they 
lived  a'most  an.\ where  about  there, 
'  down  here,  mostly,  and  over  there ; 
and  a  good  many  up  that  there  way, 
if  you  means  their  lodgings ;'  and  he 
indicated  'down  here'  and  '  over 
there'  by  pointing  with  his  gin- 
bottle,  and  in  the  same  manner  gave 
us  to  understand  which  was  '  that 
there  way,'  which  was  not  at  all  an 
inviting  way,  being  more  dismal 
than  any  we  had  yet  traversed, 
narrow,  miry,  and  flanked  on  either 
side  by  httle-windowed  houses,  tall, 
dingy,  and  mysterious  -  looking 
enough  to  be  haunted — or  at  least 
in  Chancery.  However,  it  was  the 
organ  man's  '  lodgings  '  that  we  did 
mean,  and  so  we  manfully  struck 
into  the  unclean  crevice,  known  as 
Little  Saffron  Hill. 

But  though  we  perambulated  the 
dingy  thoroughfare  in  the  most 
careful  manner,  no  organ  man  could 
we  find  either  entering  or  emerging 
from  his  domicile.  Once  my  com- 
panion thought  that  he  descried  the 
object  of  our  pursuit  ascending  the 
steps  of  a  distant  house,  and  with  a 
subdued  exclamation  of  triumph  he 
started  off  to  see  ;  in  a  few  seconds, 
-however,  he  returned  disconsolate  to 
report  the  mistaken  figure  a  woman 
with  a  clothes-basket.  At  that  in- 
stant, however,  and  while  we  were 
at  a  standstill,  the  lively  notes  of  a 
polkii  suddenly  greeted  our  ears, 
and  eagerly  following  the  welcome 
sound,  we  presently  arrived  at  the 
house  trom  whence  it  proceeded. 
It  was  a  private  house,  quite  an 
ordinary-looking  habitation,  with 
the  same  closed  shutters  and  dingy 
door  as  the  rest,  and  no  more  than 
the  average  amount  of  light  glim- 
mering through  the  chinks,  to  be- 
speak it  a  place  of  amusement. 
Still,  however,  as  we  stood  and  list- 
ened on  the  steps  of  the  house,  we 
were  convinced  that  it  must  be. 
The  polka  ceased,  and  was  instantly 


230 


The  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


followed  by  a  jig  in  tho  same  lively 
measure ;  moreover  there  was  the 
1mm  of  niniiy  voux-s,  and  tlie  sounds 
of  the  shulliiiig  of  ftet. 

'  It  is  a  thr(.r)H>nny  hop,— tliero 
can't  1)0  a  doubt  of  it,'  said  we  ;  and 
fueling  in  our  pocket  for  the  neces- 
sary entranri -money,  wo  boldly 
pushed  open  the  door  and  entered. 

The  passuf^e  was  dark,  but  at  tho 
ond  of  it  tliere  was  a  door  of  a  room, 
in  whioli  there  was  evidently  plenty 
of  light,  and  in  whicli,  as  we  could 
now  i)lainly  make  (mt,  the  music 
and  dancing  wtis.  Without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  we  ste])ped  iip  to 
this  door,  as  to  the  tirst,  and  pushed 
it  open. 

Our  expectations,  however,  were 
not  exactly  realized.  In  an  instant 
we  found  oui-sel  ves,  not  in  a  dancing- 
room  but  in  a  workshop— an  esta- 
blishment for  the  manulacturo  and 
repair  of  street  organs.  It  was  a 
small  place,  no  bigger,  probalily, 
than  an  ordinary  dining-room,  but 
it  was  cliokelul  of  organs,  old  and 
new, — stacked  ag.iiubt  tiie  walls,  on 
the  floor,  and  on  work-l)enches. 
Eight  or  ten  bare-armed,  bearded 
Italians  were  busy,  patching,  and 
polishing,  and  tinkering  at  the  in- 
struments. The  jig  tunc  that  had 
attracted  us  was  still  proceeding  as 
wo  entere<l,  tho  organ  from  which  it 
was  produced  standing  on  the 
ground,  and  the  performer  kneeling 
before  it  gravely  grinding  at  tho 
handle.  It  was  the  property,  as  it 
seemed,  of  an  unmistakeable  street 
grinder,  who  stood  by,  watching  tho 
music  doctor  as  ho  exiunined  tho 
ailing  organ,  with  as  anxious  and 
di«tres.sed  a  countenance  as  though 
it  were  nothing  less  precious  thnn 
his  eldest  lK)rn  brought  to  i>e  tested 
on  account  of  some  saspected  intes- 
tinal disorder. 

Patchers,  polishers,  tinkers — even 
the  man  that  \\\is  j^rimling  tho  jig — 
paused  in  their  various  ocupations 
and  regarded  us  in-piiringly.  Tho 
situation  wils  embarnissing,  the  moro 
BO  that  the  door  had  slammed  to, 
and  we  wero  shut  in,  and  wo  la- 
boured under  tho  disadvantage  of 
not  knowing  a  word  of  the  Italian 
tongue. 

'  Vat  you  bisniss?'  demanded  tho 
street    grinder,  presuming  on    his 


knowledge  of  our  language  to  bo 
si)okesiiian. 

We  had  no  business — none,  at 
least,  tliat  could  be  ex))lained  in  an 
olMiaml  and  satisfactory  uianner. 
Sly  companion  attempted  tho  expla- 
nation, however. 

'  It's  all  right,'  said  ho.  with  an 
insinuating  little  laugh — '  it's  a  little 
mistake  —  we  thought  there  was 
something  going  on— don't  mind  us.' 

The  organ  grinder  merely  replied, 
'  Aha  !'  as  far  as  we  could  make  out ; 
but,  turning  to  the  workmen,  tho 
traitorous  villain  must  have  alto- 
gether njisinter|)reted  to  them  my 
companion's  oliservation,  for  they 
rose,  with  warlike  gestures  and 
ejaculations,  and  turned  as  one  man 
against  u.s,— luckily,  however,  with 
so  much  noise  that  the  juoprietor  of 
tho  premises,  who  was  engaged  in 
an  adjoining  apnrtinent,  was  dis- 
turbed, and  came  hurriedly  in  to  see 
what  the  row  was  about.  He  was  a 
civil  fellow,  and  listened  with  polite 
attention  to  what  we  had  to  say. 
His  knowledge  of  English,  however, 
could  scarcely  have  been  so  '  per- 
fect' as,  at  starting,  he  a'-sured  us 
it  was ;  that  is,  judging  from  his 
answers. 

'Oh  yes!  what  you  say  is  exact, 
gentlemen ;  but  you  cannot  dance 
here  for  threci)euce  or  for  any 
money.  If  you  will  dance,  you 
must  go  to  Badessa,  or  to  Sugar 
Loaf,  t)r  to  Golden  Anchor.  Good 
evening,  gentlemen.'  And  heehowed 
us  to  the  d(X)r. 

Although  this  little  adventure 
could  not  1)0  said  to  l>e  in  all  re- 
8i)ects  gratifying,  it  was  so  in  the 
main,  inasmuch  as  it  j)rovided  us 
with  a  clue.  Clearly  the  ])Iares 
enumerated  by  the  worthy  organ 
builder  were  jdaces  of  public  enter- 
tainiiieiit  — i)laces  where  dancing  was 
encouraged.  Where  was  the  Golden 
Anchor  ?  Opportunely  there  camo 
by  a  |K;licenian. 

'  Keej)  straight  on  ami  cross  tho 
rond,  and  it's  tho  second  i)ublic  on 
the  left.' 

'It  is  a  place  where  organ  men 
a.ssemble  for  their  amusement,  is  it 
not  ?• 

'  You'll  precious  soon  find  theFort 
of  j)lace  it  is  l)efore  you  pet  within 
a  dozen  yards  of  it,'  re])Iied  the  po- 


( 


The  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


231 


liceman.  And  so  directed  we  onco 
more  stepped  out  through  the  mire 
and  the  drizzhug  rain,  with  hope 
revived. 

Since  we  paid  a  visit  to  the  Golden 
Anchor,  tliat  hostel  has  earned  for 
itself  a  hideous  notoriety.  Murder 
has  been  done  there.  At  least  that 
is  how  tlie  law,  misled  by  police 
pig-headedness  and  the  reckless 
oath-taking  of  false  witnesses,  at 
first  called  it ;  but  now,  as  it  appears, 
the  result  of  the  bloody  broil  there 
enacted  was  merely  a  man  slaugh- 
tered and  not  murdered — one  man 
slaughtered  and  two  or  three  others 
maimed  and  gashed  and  prodded ! 
It  was  a  pity  that  the  disgraceful 
bungle  was  not  completed  by  the 
hanging  of  an  innocent  man  before 
Newgate.  The  Golden  Anchor  would 
have '  drawn '  theu  with  a  vengeance, 
and  done  such  a  trade  as  never  was 
the  like ;  as  it  is  the  enterprising 
and  conscientious  landlord  reaps 
little  or  no  advantage  from  the  per- 
petration in  his  house  of  the  pretty 
little  tragedy. 

At  the  time  we  were  in  search  of 
it,  however,  it  had  no  special  attrac- 
tion ;  and  it  was  not  without  some 
little  difficulty  that  we  discovered  it 
— a  lovv,  broad  house,  gay  with  gas, 
clean  looking,  and  standing  at  the 
corner  of  a  lane  leading  to  that 
dismal  waste  opposite  the  railway 
station  in  Mew  Victoria  Street,  pa- 
tronized by  that  miserable  dreg  of 
humanity,  the  betting  blackguard. 
In  the  distance  the  house  looked  so 
quiet  and  decent  that,  despite  the 
emblem  of  hope  blazoned  in  gold 
above  the  doorway,  we  should  have 
thought  ourselves  again  at  fault  had 
it  not  been  for  the  tokens  the  police- 
man had  hinted  at,  and  which  were 
marie  known  to  us,  not  at  one  dozen 
yards'  distance  off,  but  at  three  at 
the  very  least. 

It  was  not  a  sound  of  mirth, 
neither  could  it  be  mistaken  for 
quarreling.  It  was  an  uproar  com- 
posed of  single  ejaculations,  de- 
livered by  many  voices,  and  with  a 
vehemence  that  was  absolutely  start- 
ling. It  was  as  though  a  multitude 
of  strong-lunged  religious  fanatics 
had  seized  on  a  victim  and  were,  in 
set  form,  cursing  him,  dwelling  with 
demoniac  relish  on  each  syllable  of 


the  anathema,  by  way  of  trnnsfixing 
the  soul  of  the  poor  wretch  with 
horror.  At  the  same  time  there 
smote  on  the  listening  ear  a  hollow 
thumping  noise  that  would  well 
have  passed  as  the  rapping  of 
poignard  handles  on  the  lid  of  an 
empty  cofBn. 

Nor  did  a  glimpse  of  the  interior 
of  the  mysterious  caravanserai, 
afi'orded  by  the  swinging  ajar  of  its 
centre  door,  do  much  toward  dis- 
pelling the  suspicion  that  some 
mystic  and  terrible  ceremony  was  in 
progress  within.  There  was  to  be 
seen  a  ferocious  band  seated  about 
a  long  table,  while  one  stood  up  in 
their  midst,  in  a  fiercely  excited  atti- 
tude, and  continually  raising  both 
his  clenched  fists  above  his  head, 
and  bringing  them  down  on  to  the 
table  vnth  a  bang.  And  yet,  marvel 
of  marvels !  the  mdividual  that 
opened  the  door  was  a  little  girl 
with  a  beer  jug  in  her  hand,  and 
she  went  elbowing  close  by  the  fierce 
denouncer,  with  no  more  apparent 
concern  than  though  he  had  been  a 
peep-show  man  describing  the  won- 
ders of  his  theatre.  Surely  where 
so  helpless  a  creature  went  we  might 
venture, — so  in  we  went. 

A  glance  explained  the  mystery. 
The  bar  was  very  long,  and  the 
space  before  it  ample.  There  were 
butts  and  tables  and  forms  in  this 
space ;  and  about  the  tables  and  the 
butts  were  groiaped  knots  of  Italians, 
young  and  old,  playing  at  their 
national  game  of  moro — a  simple 
game  enough,  as  the  reader  is  per- 
haps aware ;  a  sort  of  combination 
of  the  English  boys'  games  of '  buck 
buck '  and  *  odds  and  evens,'  the 
seated  players  watching  the  up- 
raised hands  of  '  buck,'  and  in  their 
turn  anticipating  the  number  of 
fingers  'buck'  intends  displaying 
by  the  time  liis  rapidly  descending 
fists  reach  the  table-top.  In  the 
hands  of  these  Italians,  however,  it 
was  a  terrible  game.  With  fiasliing 
eye  and  dishevelled  hair,  the  callers, 
too  eager  to  keep  thoir  seats,  half 
rose  and  leant  over  the  table,  roar- 
ing out  their  guesses,  with  their 
noses  nearly  touching  that  of '  buck,' 
— the  deep  chest  voices  of  the  men, 
the  high-pitched  clamour  of  the 
lads,    the  laughter   of   the   lucky 


232 


The  Private  Life  of  a  Public  Nuisance. 


^uesscrs,  nn-l  tlic  disni)pointcd 
growls  of  the  unlucky  ones,  lilonding 
U)  make  a  sciiu!  most  bedlainiiisli. 
It  secnicil  a  coiitlict  for  MockI  ratlicr 
than  for  U-er.  Nevertheless,  they 
were  ft  jolly,  pHxl-tenijiored  crew 
enougli ;  iunl  as  the  piiiies  came  to 
an  eiul  (there  were  at  hast  half 
a  dozen  pimes  in  i)rop:res8  at  the 
various  tables  >,  tlicy  came  jovially 
to  the  bar  and  drank  their  li<iuor, 
with  much  jokinfr  and  friendly 
shoulder-siapijiiig.  They  paid  down 
tlieir  losings,  t(K),  with  the  air  of 
fellows  who  had  sjiare  sixixnccs  to 
spend;  imleeil,  they  seemed  to  Ihj 
6o  flush  of  money  that  we  began  to 
doubt  if  they  could  pos-ibly  l)e  men 
•who  nuiclced  up  a  day"s  earnings  a 
halfpenny  at  a  time  by  grinding  at 
an  or^;an,  an  1  took  ojtportunity  to 
ask  the  waiter  (the  poor  wretch, 
probably,  who  afterwards  was  eo 
nearly  fatally  t-tablML-d  in  the  stomach) 
if  such  were  tiie  case. 

'  They  ain't  all  organ  men,'  he  re- 
ph"ed ;  '  some  of  'em  are  pictur- 
frame  makers,  and  imnge-coves. 
They  are  al»out  half  organ  men.' 

'  They  seem  to  spend  their  money 
pretty  freely.' 

'So  they  ought;  they  earns 
enonph.' 

'  What,  the  organ  men?' 

'Organ  men,  ah!  Apenco  tells 
np,  don't  yer  know.  They  i)icks  up 
a  jolly  ^igllt  more  than  me  and  jou, 
as  works  hard  for  our  livin'.' 

There  was  ntjthing  in  the  drcFs  of 
the  iiioro  players  to  dislinguisli- the 
organ  grinder  fioin  his  friend  the 
'image  cove.'  AH  were  dre«.'-ed 
alike— and  very  well  dre.s.-^ed,  after  a 
style.  More  than  nn\ thing  they 
looked  like  a  Ixnly  of  Fcafaring  men 
—  foixign  sailors,  recently  jwid  oCF. 
Their  long  blue  jackets  wtre  those 
of  holidiiy-<lre-se<l  sailors,  us  were 
their  black  satin  waistcoats,  their 
'navy  '  caps,  their  pumps  anl  their 
earrings,  and  their  abundanco  of 
silver  watch-guard.  Moreover, 
most  of  them  worn  bri(.dit-coIoured 
worsted  comforters,  as  do  foreign 
sailors  invariably  when  dres.'-d  in 
their  iKst  and  ashore.  Altngrtlur, 
their  a)  pcaranc^  was  such  aw  to  en- 
tirely chatige  one'H  views  concern- 
ing the  Uggarly  trade  of  organ 
grinding. 


Jleanwhile  our  friends  caronso, 
and  the  moro  ])layers  cluster  thicker 
aUiut  the  tables  and  butts,  and  the 
din  becomes  such  that  the  tall  and 
muscular  landlonl  has  to  hold  his 
hand  to  his  ear  that  he  may  catch 
the  orders  of  his  customers.  Sud- 
denly, however,  a  simnd  of  music  is 
heard,  and  mstantly  there  is  a  com- 
motion amongst  the  j>layers,  and  all 
but  those  who  are  in  the  middle  of  a 
game  Imrry  towards  a  door  at  the 
end  of  a  passage  lK3side  the  bar. 
Joining  the  throng,  we  too  appioach 
the  door  and  enter  the  room  it  opens 
into. 

It  is  that  to  which  the  organ 
builder  recommended  us,  'if  wo 
must  dance.'  It  is  a  spacious  room, 
with  bare,  dirty  walls,  and  scant  of 
furniture  as  the  casual  wan!  of  a 
woikhoufe.  There  is  only  one  largo 
table  in  the  place,  and  a- top  of  that 
is  mounted  a  hard-working  grinder, 
in  his  every-day  clotlus,  with  his 
organ  at  his  side,  and  lal)Ouring  at 
the  handle  of  it  a.s  stolidly,  and  with 
the  same  business  air  as  though  ho 
were  standing  in  the  gutter  in  the 
Edgware  Koad.  Amongst  the 
throng  thai  crowd  the  room  he 
must  recognize  many  friemls— rela- 
tives perhaps, — but  he  looks  as  un- 
concerned as  a  soldier  on  duty  in  a 
harrac'k-jard.  Perliaps  ho  would 
not  get  so  many  haltpence  if  ho 
allected  to  regard  his  services  as 
merely  friendly. 

As  it  is  he  docs  not  fare  badly. 
Between  each  polka  and  Maltz  ho 
makes  a  f-ignificant  pau.'e,  and  Iho 
dancers  feo  him.  There  are  female 
dancers  as  well  as  male;  and, 
strangely  enough,  the  females  aro 
not  one  of  them  Italian.  They 
are  chiefly  English  and  Irish  girls, 
working  in  the  niighlKxirluxxl  as 
loaking  glaf-s  frame  polishers.  AVo 
were  informed  by  (me  of  the  damsels 
in  question  that  the  Italians  wvtr 
bring  their  countrywomen  with 
them  to  the  dancing-room.  Perhaps 
this  may  l)0  accounted  lor  on  econo- 
mical grounds  ;  did  they  bring  their 
countrywomen  with  them,  they 
would  naturally  expert  to  bo  treated 
with  some  degnc  of  generosity; 
whereas  the  griniier's  treatment  of 
his  English  or  Irish  ])aitner  was 
as  shabby  as  can  bo  well  imagined, 


TJie  Private  Life  of  a  Publio  Nuisance. 


233 


her  only  reward  heme;  a  pull  at  the 
pewter  pot,  out  of  which  he  himself 
reealed.  True,  he  did  not  ask  much 
of  her ;  indeed,  his  contract  with  her 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  amount 
to  a  partnership,  the  dance  being 
managed  in  this  strange  fashion  : — 
Jacko  and  Antonio  make  up  their 
minds  for  a  dance,  and  select  each 
a  damsel ;  but  Jacko  and  Antonio 
dance  togetlier,  and  the  two  damsels 
dance  together  alongside  Jacko  and 
friend.  When  the  dance  is  over, 
Jacko  orders  four  pen'north  of  beer, 
and  the  four  divide  it  amongst 
them. 

'Stingy  brggars,  arn't  they?' 
whispered  the  damsel  who  had 
given  us  the  bit  of  information  con- 
cerning the  organ  man's  peculiar 
method  of  dancing  ; '  thinks  as  much 
of  a  shilling  as  another  man  would 
of  five.  It  ain't  as  though  it  was 
every  night.' 

'  They  don't  come  here  every 
night  in  the  week  ?' 

'Bless  you,  no!  a  few  on  Mon- 
days, sometimes,  but  nothing  to 
speak  of.  Saturday  night  is  their 
time— their  time  out,  I  mean :  Sun- 
day is  their  time  at  home. 

'Their  lime  for  what?— not 
dancing?' 

'Dancing,  no!  no  room  for 
dancing,  with  twelve  or  fourteen  of 
'em  in  a  bit  of  a  back  parlour. 
Drinking  and  cards  and  dominoes, 
that's  what  they  get  up  to.  Let 
'em  alone;  they  can  come  out 
strong  enough  amongst  their  own 
set.  Plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  plenty 
of  rum,  plenty  of  everything.' 

'I  shouldn't  have  thought  that 
they  earned  sufficient  money  to  in- 
dulge in  such  luxuries.' 

'  They  don't  earn  it  all :  see  what 
their  wives  earn  at  artificial-flower 
making  and  cisiar-making.' 

'  Then  they  have  pretty  comfort- 
able homes  ?' 


'  Well,  comfortable  as  they  look 
at  it:  you  see,  they  arc  people  of 
such  strange  ways:  all  for 'club- 
bing." They  club  together  to  pay 
the  rent  of  a  room;  to  buy  a  joint 
of  meat;  for  their  beer,  lor  their 
tobacco,  for  everything;  eating  and 
drinking  and  smoking  together,  a 
whole  houseful  of  'em,  just  as 
though  they  were  all  brothers  and 
sisters.  Plenty  of  everything,  you 
know,  but  such  a  hugger-mugger.' 

The  young  woman  spoke  as  one 
that  knew  ;  and  it  was  very  much 
to  our  annoyance  that,  just  at  this 
moment,  Jacko  once  more  advanced 
towards  her,  and  invited  her  to  stand 
up  and  earn  another  drink  of  bad 
beer ;  and  so  we  lost  sight  of  her. 

We  had  gleaned  enough,  one  way 
and  another,  however,  to  convince 
us  that  Jacko  makes  a  very  decent 
livelihood  out  of  his  organ.  He 
lives  well,  takes  his  amusement,  has 
a  bettermost  suit  of  clothes,  and  a 
silver  watch  and  chain. 

'  Which  is  crowning  evidence,' 
triumphantly  observes  the  grinder's 
champion,  *  that  the  public  are  well 
disposed  towards  the  poor  fellow, 
that  they  appreciate  his  humble 
efforts  to  amuse  them,  and  properly 
reward  him.' 

But  isn't  there  another  point  cf 
observation  from  which  the  flourish- 
ing grinder  may  be  viewed?  We 
humbly  and  hopefully  think  so. 
Assuming— and  surely  it  is  fair  to 
assume  —  that  at  least  half  the 
grinder's  gleanings  accrue  to  him 
as  '  smart  money '  to  send  him  and 
his  nuisance  pacldng,  our  eyes  are 
opened  to  the  immense  strength  of 
this  section  of  the  army  of  opposi- 
tion— a  section  more  powerful  than 
any  other,  and  one  that  has  only  to 
vigorously  assert  itself,  and  the  days 
of  the  organ  monster's  reign  are 
numbered. 

James  Geeenwood. 


^® 


234 


ANECDOTE  AND  GOSSIP  ABOUT  CLUBS. 


rART  II. 


THE  'Spectator/  who  knew somc- 
tliiu;;  iilK)Ht  chil)s,  and  indeed 
modestly  surmised  that  his  detrac- 
tors  had   Koino   colour   lor   calling 
liiin  the  Kuij;;  of  Clubs,  has  oracu- 
larly said  that  'all  celebrated  clubs 
were  founded  on  eating  and  drink- 
ing, which  are  ]H)ints  where  most 
men  a^'ne.and  in  which  the  learned 
and  the  illiterate,  the  dull  and  tho 
airy,  the  philosoi)hcr  and  the  buf- 
foon, can  all  of  them  bear  a  part.' 
But  it  is  not  every  club  that  has 
avowed  itself  by  its  nauic  or  title  as 
foruied  on  this  basis.    Of  course  tlio 
father  of  Fielding's  Squire  ^Vestern 
would  have  no  extra  blush  suffuse 
his  fully  pre-occupied  cheek  in  an- 
nouncing that  October  was  a  drink 
fit  for  the  Jacobite  gods  of  the  fox- 
chase  who  likeci  to  enjoy  their  rus  in 
urix',  and  to  keep  up  the  simplicity 
of  their  tastes  during  a  temporary 
sojourn  amongst  the  comi)lexitiesof 
uietrojiolitan  society.  There  are  two 
or  tiiree  clubs,  however,  which  de- 
clare their  culinary  basis  with  more 
straightforwardness   than  even  tho 
Octol)er  did.     Indeed  it  is  only  by 
6upi)lying  an  ellipsis,  and  thinking 
of    tlie    pleasure    and    dignity    of 
'going   to   bed    mellow,'    that    tho 
name  of  the  last  can  l>e  brought  into 
connection  with  anything  eatable  or 
driidvable.    But  about  the  ]5eef-steak 
Club  and  the  Kit-Kat  Club  there  is 
no  room  for  mistake.     And  of  these 
we  are  about  to  rei-ord  a  few  jjarti- 
culars.     '  The  Kit-Kat  itself/  says 
Addison,  in  illustration  of  the  pro- 
position  quoted   from    him   a    few 
lines  nlM)V(',   '  is  said  to  have  taken 
its  original  from  a  Mutlon-Pyc.  Tho 
B<ef-sleak  and  October  Clubs,  arc 
neitherof  them  averse  to  eating  and 
drinking,  if  we  may  form  a  juilg- 
ment  of  tliem  from  their  respective 
titles.'     The  Beef-steak   Club,  thus 
alluded    to,   was    founded    in    tho 
Augustan  nign  of  Anne;  and  was, 
as  Chetwood  s  '  History  of  tliu  Stage ' 
informs  us,  '  composed  of  the  chief 
wits  and  great  men  of  the  nition.' 
The  budge  of  the  club  was  a  small 
gridiron  of  gold,  worn  suspended 


from    the  nock   by  a    green    filk 
ribbon.    Dick  Ksti-onrt,  the  player, 
was  made   Providore  of  tlio  club. 
Ho  was  a  man  of  intiuitc  wit,  amia- 
bility, and  good  manners.  His  name 
ajipears    very     frecjuently    in     the 
'  Spectator/  and  always  honourably. 
At  one  time  Sir  iJogi  r  dc  Covorley, 
addressing  him  from  the  ccmutry  as 
'  old  comical  one,' acknowledges  tho 
safe    arrival    at   CoverUy   of    'the 
hogsheads  of  neat  Port/  and  praises 
its  qualities  of  liygieno  and  good- 
fellowship.    '  Pray  get  a  pure  snug 
room/  proceeds  the  knight,  '  and  1 
hope   next  term  to   lielp  till   your 
Bumper   with    our    people  of    the 
Club;  but  you  must  have  no  bells 
stirring    when     the     "  Spectator" 
comes  ;  I  fori  tore  ringing  to  Dinner 
while  he  was  down  with  mo  in  tho 
country.'      Esteourt  at  tins    time 
(171 1),  and  for  a  few  months  after, 
was  the  landlord  of  a  tavern  called 
the  Bumper,  in  Covent  Garden.  Tho 
'  Spectator '  for  ^Ve(lncsllay,  August 
27,  of  tho    following  year,    is    de- 
voted  to    the   eulogy   and   lament 
with  which  Steele  lie)nonred  the  me- 
mory of  this  unrivalleel  companion. 
Confessing   his    obligations    to  liis 
deceased  friend  for  many  liours  of 
mirth    and    jollity,  Steele  ])articu- 
larizes  those  faculties  the  posses.sion 
and   the   Ufe   "^^f  wliich    hud   made 
Esteourt   inimitable.      His  percep- 
tion of  incongruity   was  so  subtle 
and   delicate   that  ho   was   a  very 
arbiter  of  taste ;  and  he  hud  410  less 
a  profemnd  pnd  just  tcnso  of  the 
beautiful.     '  I  dare  siiy,  there  is  no 
one   who  knew  him  well,  but  con 
repeat    more    well-turned   compli- 
ments, as  well  as  siuiirt  repartees,  of 
Mr.  Estcourt's   than    of  any  other 
man   in  England.     This  was  easily 
to   Ix)  observ(!d    in    his  iniuiitablo 
faculty  of  telling  a  slory,  in  which 
he  would  throw  in  nituial  and  un- 
expecte;d  incidents  to  make  his  court 
to  one  i)art,  auel  rally  the  other  part 
of  the  com])any.     'llicn  he  would 
vary  tho  UMige  he  gave  tliem,  ac- 
cording as  he  f-aw  tin  in  bear  kind 
or  sharp  language.     Uo   had    the 


Anecdote  and  Oossip  about  Clubs. 


235 


knack  to  raise  np  a  persivc  temper, 
and  mortify  an  impcrlinently  gay 
one,  witli  tlie  most  agreeable  skill 
imaginal)!(>.  There  are  a  thousand 
things  which  crowd  into  my  me- 
mory, which  make  me  too  much 
concerned  to  tell  on  abovit  liim.' 
His  power  of  mimicry  was  match- 
less, and  going  furt  er  than  the 
manner  and  the  words  into  the 
very  heart  and  thought otthe person 
reijresented.  His  urbanity  under 
the  galling  weight  of  a  profession 
■which  subjected  him  to  bo  called 
upon  simply  to  amuse,  when  lie  had 
within  him  the  consciousness  of 
higher  woith,  was  as  great  as  ever 
it  was  in  any  man  of  like  nature 
and  genius  under  like  circum- 
stances. He  was  dreaded  only  by 
'  the  vain,  the  formal,  the  proud,  or 
those  who  were  incapable  of  amend- 
ing their  faults;  to  others  he  wasia 
the  highest  degree  pleasing.  *  ♦  * 
It  is  1o  poor  Estcourt  T  chiefly  owe 
that  I  atn  arrived  at  the  happiness 
of  thinking  nothing  a  diminution  to 
me,  but  what  argues  a  depravity  of 
my  will.'  Further  on.  Sir  Richard 
speaks  of  him  as  '  this  extraordinary 
man,  who,  in  his  way,  never  had  an 
eqnal  in  any  age  before  him,  or  in 
that  wherein  he  lived.  1  sjjeak  of 
him  as  a  companion,  and  a  man 
qualified  for  conversation.'  He  was 
without  presumption  ;  but  he  never 
forgot  his  own  dignity,  nor  that  of 
the  guests  whom  he  was  called  upon 
to  entertain.  '  I  wish  it  were  any 
honour,'  Steele  concludes,  '  to  the 
pleasant  creature's  memory  that  my 
eyes  are  too  much  sntfuscd  to  let  me 

go  on .'     We  trust  that  we  have 

not  sinned  against  the  patience  of 
the  reader  in  dwelling  thus  far 
upon  Dick  Estcourt;  the  social 
idol  of  the  'Spectator'  deserved  a 
more  than  momentary  or  nominal 
mention.  Ned  Ward,  in  his  'Secret 
History  of  Clubs,'  dues  not  make 
such  complimentary  allusion  to 
Estcourt  or  to  the  club  of  which 
he  was  so  prominent  an  officer. 
According  to  Ward,  the  Club  of 
Bcef-eattrs  fii-st  established  them- 
selves 'at  the  sign  of  the  Imiierial 
Phiz,  just  opposite  to  a  famous  con- 
venticle in  the  Old  Jewry,  a  public- 
house  that  has  long  (1709)  l)een 
cmment  lor  the  true  British  quin- 


tessence of  malt  and  hops,  anl 
a  broiled  sliver  off  the  iuicy  rump  of 
a  fat  well-fed  bullock.'  Hero  the 
'superintendent  of  the  kit(;hen  was 
wont  to  provide  several  nice  speci- 
mens of  their  betfstiak  cookery, 
some  with  the  flavour  of  a  slialot  or 
onion;  some  broiled^  some  fritd, 
some  stewed,  some  tonstcd,  and 
others  roasted,  that  every  judicious 
member  of  the  new-erected  Club 
niijiht  appeal  to  his  palate,  and  from 
thence  determine  wbetlier  the  house 
they  had  cho^f  n  for  their  rtnilezvous 
truly  deserved  that  public  fame  for 
their  iniujitable  maniigement  of  a 
bovinary  sliver,  which  the  world 
had  given  them.'  Being  satisfied 
on  this  point,  they  tixtd  their  meet- 
ings to  be  continued  weekly  at  the 
same  place.  Here,  after  a  time,  the 
boys  of  Merchant  Ta}  lors'  School 
were  accustomed  to  regale  the  club 
on  its  nights  of  meeting  with  up- 
roarious shouts  of  'Hhzya— Beef- 
steak.' '  But  the  modei-t  club,  not 
atiecting  popularity,  and  cliooMUg 
rather  to  be  deaf  to  all  public  flat- 
teries, thought  it  an  act  of  prudence 
to  adjourn  from  thence  into  a  place 
of  obscurity,  where  they  might  feast 
knuckle-deep  in  luscious  gravy,  and 
enjoy  themselves  free  from  the  noisy 
addresses  of  the  young  scholastic 
rabble;  so  that  no^,  whether  they 
have  healed  the  breach,  and  are 
again  returned  into  the  Kit- Cat 
community,  from  whence  it  is  be- 
lieved, upon  some  disgust,  they  at 
first  separated,  or  wliether,  like  the 
Calves'  Head  Club,  they  remove  from 
place  to  place  to  prevent  discovery,  I 
shan't  presume  to  determine;  but 
at  the  present,  like  Gates's  army  of 
pilgrims,  in  the  tiuiO  of  the  plot, 
though  they  arc  much  talked  of, 
they  are  difficult  to  be  found.' 

The  Beef-stenk  Soriety  is  not  to 
be  confounded  with  the  Beef-steak 
Club;  a  designation  which  tlio 
former  eschewed.  We  touch  but 
liglitly  on  the  '  Sublime  Society,'  as 
a  special  paper  in  this  number  (see 
p.  282)  is  devoted  to  their  history 
and  doings. 

Captain  Morris,  '  the  Bard  of  the 
Beef-steak  Socie'y,'  must  not  bo 
omitted  from  our  record,  however 
slight.  Charles  Morns  was  born  of 
good  family  in  1745,  and  appears  to 


236 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


liavc  inlicrltod  a  tnstc  for  lyric  corn- 
l^ositioii,  for  his  f  ithcr  coiiiposcd  the 
]>opMlar  Koiif^  of  '  Kitty  Crowder.' 
For  hiilf  a  century  Morris  luowd  in 
the  first  circles  of  rauk  ami  paiety: 
he  was  the  'Sun  of  the  TaMo'  at 
Carlton  House,  as  well  as  at  Norfolk 
House;  and  vit'iichinR  himself  po- 
litically as  well  as  convivially  to  his 
table  companiDus,  ho  composed  the 
a-lebrated  liailutls  of  '  IJiily's  too 
younp;  to  drive  us'  and  '  Dilly  Pitt 
and  the  Furmcr,'  which  were  clever 
satires  upon  tho  asi^endant  i)olitics 
of  their  day.  His  humorous  ridi- 
cule of  the  Tories  was,  however,  but 
ill  repaid  by  tho  Whij^s;  at  least,  if 
we  may  trust  tho  'OJe  to  tho  Bufif 
^Vaistcoat,'  written  in  1815.  His 
'  Songs  Tolitical  and  Convivial/ 
many  of  which  wcfte  sung  at  tho 
Steaks'  lK)ard,  l)ecamo  very  popular. 
In  the  decline  of  life  and  fortune, 
Morris  wjvs  hanlsomely  provided  for 
by  his  fellow-Steak,  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  who  conferred  upon  him  a 
charming  ntroat  at  Brockham,  in 
Surrey,  which  he  lived  to  enjoy 
until  tho  year  iS^S,  surviving  his 
benefactor  by  twenty-three  years. 
Ho  had  taken  leave  of  the  Society, 
and  voided  his  laureateship,  how- 
ever, in  iSjr,  being  then  in  his 
eighty-sixth  year.  The  following  is 
preserved  as  his  valedictory  poem: — 

'  Adiou  to  tlic  worM  !  where  I  gratefully  own, 
Few  men  more  delight  or  mure  comfort  have 

known ; 
To  an  age  far  beyonj  mortal  lot  have  1  trod 
The  path  of  pure  health,  that  bcgt  blessfng  of 

c:.d; 
And  Mj  mildly  devout  Nature  tempered  my 

frame. 
Holy  patience  ttlll  soothed  when  Adversi'y 

ranie ; 
Tbm  with  mind  ever  cheerful,  and  tongue 

never  tired, 
I  »ung  the  gay  strains  these  sweet  blessings  in- 

splrcij ; 
And  by  llonding  light  mirth  with  a  moral- 

mixt  stave, 
AVon  the  Muilc  of  the  gay  and  the  nod  of  tho 

grave. 
But  at  length  the  dull  languor  of  mortal  decay 
Tbrowa  a  weight  on  lu  bpirit  tuo  light  for  it« 

cby; 
And  the  fancy,  snUliiH.  m  the  body's  opprest, 
lU'A  gti*  ihc  lalut  flight*  that  scarce  Halce  In 

the  brca»t 
A  painful  mcmrnto  lli.it  moti's  not  to  play 
A  gnmc  of  light  folly  through  l.ife'ii  s'llierdny ; 
A  Just  admonition,  thougli  viewed  with  reRTet, 
Still    blcascUly  oO'ercU,  though    thanlckkbiy 

met. 


Too  Ions.  I  porliaps,  Iil;e  the  many  who  Ptrny, 
Iluve  iiplield  the  gay  themes  ol   the   U.icclia- 

nal's  d.iy  : 
Hut  at  length  Time  bas  brought,  wliat  it  ever 

will  bring, 
A  slni'le  iliat  excites  more  to  sij-li  tlmn  to  sing. 

In   till*   close  ol  Life's  chapter,  ye  liigh- 
fjvourc  d  few. 
Take    my   Jluscs  last  tribute— this  painful 

adl(  u  ! 
Take  my  wisli,  that  your  bright  social  circle 

on  eai  lli 
For  cvi  t  mny  fl.luri^h  in  concord  and  mirih  ; 
tor   the   lung  years  of  joy  1  have  shared  at 

your  Ixxird, 
'J'ake   the  thank j  of  my  heart— where  they 

long  have  been  stored  ; 
And  remember,  when  Time  tolls  my  last  part- 
ing knell. 
The  •  oM  hard  "  dropped  a  tear,  and  then  bade 

ye-K.irenell !' 

But  he  paid  other  honorary  and 
poetical  visits  to  his  dear  brethren 
and  children  of  the  Sttaks  at  inter- 
vals in  his  remaining  lifetime,  al- 
ways welcome,  always  jocund  and 
gny  and  atTectionate.  IMorris  died 
at  the  patriarchal  age  of  ninety- 
three^  dying  even  then,  as  Curian 
said  of  him  that  he  would,  'in  his 
youth;'  ami  only  a  few  years  after 
he  had  favoured  a  f-elect  numlnjr  of 
friends  by  tinging,  to  his  own  ac- 
conipaninient  on  the  pianoforte,  the 
air  of  '  The  Girl  I  left  behind  me,' 
in  a  bookseller's  shop  at  Dorking. 

The  Beef-slcak  has  conferrecl  a 
designation  upon  other  incorpora- 
tions besides  those  wc  have  men- 
tioned—upon one,  namely,  which 
was  established  at  the  Theatre 
Koyal,  Dublin,  in  1749,  under  the 
presidency  of  Mrs.  P»g  WotHngton, 
ttio  only  lady  a<lmitted  to  its  cele- 
brations; on  the  clul)  in  Ivy  Lane, 
in  the  classical  neiglibourlKxxl  of 
Kewgato  Jbirket  an!  Paternoster 
PiOw,  ot  which  Dr  .lohnson  was  a 
memlHjr;  on  a  political  association 
callte-d  tho  Piump-steak,  or  Liln'rty, 
Club,  tho  members  ot  which  wtro 
in  enthusiastic  opix)silion  to  Sir 
Boliert  WaliMile's  administration  ; 
and  on  still  another,  instituted  by 
Beard,  Dtinstall,  WtxKlward,  (iiflord, 
and  others,  at  the  Bell  Tavirn, 
Church  Bow,  Houndsdjtch.  From 
this  last  circumstance  let  any  curled 
diirlings  of  fiusliion  or  of  literature, 
on  tho  look-out  for  a  new  sensation, 
anl  thiiikiiig,  laply,  of  establishing 
a  Beef-sleak  Club  at  tho  Toad-in-a 
Hole,  Shadwell,   bo  encouraged  to 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs* 


237 


persevere.  They  are  surely  on  the 
road  to  fame. 

•  In  glancing  at  the  Bcef-stoak 
Club  and  Society,  we  have  neces- 
sarily arrived  at  a  point  from  which 
it  becomes  us  to  retrace  our  steps 
for  nearly  a  couple  of  centuries,  in 
order  that  we  may  enact  the  rhap- 
sodist  to  the  multiform  glories  of 
the  Kit-Kat  Club,  formed  about 
the  year  1700,  towards  the  latter 
end  of  the  reign  of  King  Wil- 
liam III.  The  origin  of  its  peculiar 
designation  is  variously  accounted 
for.  Pope,  or  Arbuthnot— for  the 
authorship  of  the  lines  is  unsettled 
—sings: — 

•  Whence  deathless  Kit-Kat  took  its  name. 

Few  critics  can  unriddle  : 
Some  say  from  pastry-cook  It  came, 
And  some  from  Cat  and  Fiddle. 

'From  no  trim  beaux  its  name  It  Ijoasts, 

Grey  statesmen  or  green  wits; 
But  from  the  pell-mell  pack  of  toasts 
Of  old  cats  and  young  kits.' 

This  epigrammatic  derivation  leads 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  named 
from  its  well-known  custom  of 
toasting  ladies  after  dinner.  The 
supposed  sign  of  the  Cat  and  Fiddle 
(Kitt),  mentioned,  to  be  discarded, 
in  the  foregoing  lines,  offers  another 
solution.  But  there  is  a  third, 
which— if  we  are  not  to  suppose  that 
the  title  was  a  haphazard  one  to 
which  theories  of  its  etymology  were 
adapted,  and  which  was  retained  on 
account  of  its  singularity — is  deserv- 
ing of  attention. 

The  Kit-Kat  Club  bad  their  first 
assemblies  at  a  house  in  Shire  Lane, 
near  Temple  Bar,  which  was  occu- 
pied by  a  pastrycook  named  Chris- 
topher Katt,  famous  for  his  skill  in 
making  mutton-pies,  a  dish  from 
which  the  club  itself,  and  the  viand 
which  formed  the  j3?'ece  de  resistance 
at  their  entertainments,  took  its 
name. 

'  A  Kit-Kat  is  a  supper  for  a  lord,' 

says  the  prologue  of  a  comedy  of 
1 700 ;  but  Dr.  King,  as  Mr.  Timbs 
points  out,  is  in  favour  of  the  pie- 
man. Says  the  Doctor,  in  his  '  Art 
of  Cookery ' — 

•  Immortal  made  as  Kit-Kat  by  his  pies.' 

'Ned  Ward,'  says  Mr.  Timbs, ' at 
once  connects  the  Kit-Kat  Club  with 


Jacob    Tonson,    "an    amphibious 
mortal,    chief    mcvchaut     to     tl:e 
Muses."     Yet  this  is  evidently  a 
caricature.      The    maker    of    the 
mutton-pies  Ward  maintains  to  be 
a  person  named  Cliri.-fopher,  who 
lived   at  the  si^n  of  tlie   Cat  and 
Fiddle,  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane,  whence 
he  removed  to  keep  a  pudding-pye 
shop,  near  the  Fountain  Tavern,  in 
the  Strand.     Ward  commends  his 
mutton-pies,  cheese-cakes,  and  cus- 
tards, and  the  pieman's  interest  in 
the  sons  of  Parnassus ;  and  his  in- 
viting "  a  new  set  of  Authors  to  a 
collation  of  oven  trumpery  at  his 
friend's    house,    where    they    were 
nobly  entertained  with  as  curious  a 
batch  of  pastry  delicacies  as  ever 
were  seen  at  the  winding-up  of  a 
Lord  Mayor's  feast;"   adding,  that 
"  there    was    not   a   mathematical 
figure    in  Euclid's    Elements    but 
what  was  presented  to  the  table  in 
baked  wares,  whose  cavities  were 
filled  with  fine  eatable  varieties  fit 
for  the  gods  or  poets."    Mr.  Charles 
Knight,  in  the  "  Shilling  Magazine," 
No.  2,  maintains  that  by  the  above 
is  meant,  that  Jacob  Tonson,  the 
bookseller,      was     the      pieman's 
"  friend,"  and  that  to  the  customary 
"  whet "  to  his  authors  he  added  the 
pastry  entertainment.    Ward  adds, 
that  this  grew  into  a  weekly  meet- 
ing, provided  his,  the  bookseller's, 
friends  would  give  him  the  refusal 
of  their  juvenile  productions.    This 
"  generous  proposal  was  very  readily, 
agreed  to  by  the  whole  poetic  class, 
and  the  cook's  name   being  Chris- 
topher, for  brevity  called  Kit,  and 
his  sign  being  the  Cat  and  Fiddle, 
they  very  merrily  derived  a  quaint 
denomination  from  puss  and    her 
master,    and    from    thence    called 
themselves  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club."' 

The  Kit-Kat  was  the  great  Whig 
club  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  at 
its  commencement  was  compo.sed  of 
thirty-nine  members,  amongst  whom 
were  the  Dukes  of  Blarlborough, 
Grafton,  Devonshire,  Richmond,  and 
Somerset ;  the  Earls  of  Dorset,  Sun- 
derland, Manchester,  Wharton,  and 
Kingston;  Lords  Halifax  and  So- 
mers  ;  Sir  Eobert  Walpole,  Van- 
brugh,  Congreve,  Granville,  Addi- 
son, Majnwaring,  Garth,  Stepney, 
and  Walsh.    In  later  days  it  num- 


238 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Chihs. 


l)cred  tlio  pronfcst  wits  of  the  ago 
amonp  its  nicmlK'r.^. 

Till!  CliiU  sul>scri'x!(l  in  1709  tho 
Fum  (if  f'tur  hiindifd  p\iinens  for  tho 
t'liconrnp  iiicnt  of  pood  comeilios, 
and  is  iiKso  famous  for  the  cnoou- 
rnpoHKnt  it  (xtcrKhHl  to  art.  Popo 
writi'S  to  Spcnct":  '  You  have  heard 
of  the  Kit-Cat  Chih.  The  master  of 
the  house  wlure  tlie  club  met  was 
Christopht  r  Katt ;  Tonson  was  rcc- 
H'tary.  •  •  *  Jaooli  (;.'.,  Tonson) 
has  his  own  and  all  tlieir  pictures, 
by  Sir  Gixlfrey  KncUer.  Kach 
memlxir  pave  his,  and  he  ia  poinpto 
build  a  room  for  them  at  I'arn 
Kims'  These  prirt raits  were  all  of 
one  size,  thirty-six  inclies  by  twenty- 
ciglit;  and  the  name  of  the  Clnb  lias 
l)een  thence  used  extensively  to 
designate  pictures  of  these  dimen- 
sions. 

The  Clnb  held  its  sumracr  mcet- 
inp.s  at  the  Upper  Flask,  Ilainp- 
pfead  Heath. 

But  the  culminating  glory  of  the 
Kit  Kat,  after  i's  political,  literary, 
and  artistic  characteristics  have 
l)cen  duly  honoured,  was  in  its 
f-pirit  of  pilliiitry.  It  was  still  the 
custom,  at  the  time  of  its  institu- 
tion, to  call  upon  the  name  of  some 
fair  maiden,  and  cliaimt  her  praises 
over  the  cup  as  it  pa.ssed.  The 
Kit- Kat  reduced  this  custom  into  a 
system ;  and  every  mcmfier  was 
compelled  to  name  a  lieauty,  whose 
claims  to  the  distinction  of  being  a 
toast  of  the  Club  were  then  dis- 
cus.scd  ;  and  if  her  charms  werecon- 
Bpicuous  enough  to  pivo  her  victory 
in  f  ucli  an  ordeal,  a  separate  bowl 
was  liedicated  to  her  worship,  and 
verses  to  her  honour  were  engraven 
upon  it.  Some  of  the  most  cele- 
bratcfl  of  tho  toasts  had  their  pic- 
tures hung  up  in  the  club-ro<im; 
and  to  be  tho  favourite  of  the  Kit- 
Kat  was  an  object  of  no  small  am- 
l)ition.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tapn  had  attained  this  distinction 
at  tho  ripe  ape  of  cipht  years.  Lord 
Dorchester,  her  father,  afterwards 
Duke  of  Kingston,  pave  on  one  oc- 
CAsion  'the  j)retty  little  child'  for 
his  t<^)af;t;  but  tlio  otlier  meml>ers, 
who  had  not  .-^tn  tho  young  as- 
pirant, demurred  to  lier  canoniz- 
ution  until  her  pre-cnce  ha<l  been 
Bccurcd  by  her  father.    When  tho 


little  Ix'auty  was  produced,  how- 
ever, all  (lisafTectioi'  and  all  objec- 
tions at  once  were  slam,  and  she 
was  ])assed  from  meml>ei  to  ad- 
miring member,  from  Knee  to  dand- 
ling knee.  Another  ci  lebrated  toast 
of  the  Kit- Kat,  luentioned  by  Wal- 
pole,  was  Lady  Molyneux,  who,  ho 
says,  died  smoking  a  pi{>e.  Other 
favourites  were  Lady  Godol|)hin, 
La<ly  Sunderland,  Lidy  Driilge- 
water,  and  Lady  ISlontliermer,  all 
daughters  ol  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
l)orough  ;  the  Duchesses  ot  Boltim, 
St.  AllVin's,  Richmond,  and  Beau- 
fort; Mr.--.  Barton,  the  fVieiid  of 
Swift,  and  niece  of  Sir  I^aac  Newton, 
and  other  ladies  too  numerous  to 
mention. 

The  poet  of  the  Kit-Kat,  par 
c.rcrlliiicf,  was  Sir  Samuel  Garth, 
the  physician  and  friend  of  Marl- 
borough, with  who?e  sword  he  was 
knighted  liy  King  George  L  lie  is 
poetically  known  in  these  days 
chiefly  by  his  '  Dispcpsary.'  a  satire 
upon  the  apothecaries,  ilc  was  a 
jovial  mcnilier,  and  a  witty  man. 
One  night,  being  at  the  Club,  and  in 
love  with  the  wme  and  tiie  com- 
pany, he  liad  completely  forgotten 
the  fifteen  patients  whose  names  ap- 
peared on  his  list  of  the  day,  but 
whom  ho  had  so  far  left  unvi.sifed. 
When  it  had  liecome  too  late  to  call 
upon  them,  he  excused  himself  to 
his  brethren  ot  the  Kit-Kut  by  de 
daring  that  it  was  no  great  matter 
whether  he  saw  them  tiiat  night  or 
not,  '  For  nine  of  them,'  said  ho, 
'  have  such  bad  constitutions,  that 
all  the  physicians  in  the  world  can't 
save  them ;  and  the  other  six  have 
such  good  constitutions  that  all  tho 
physicians  in  tho  world  cant  kill 
them.'  Tho  l(/iss>~.-Jain'  of  such  a 
speech  it  would  bo  diflicult  to  l)oat. 

Charles  Montagu,  Karl  of  Halifax, 
was  tho  Miccenas  of  his  day,  whom 
Pope  described  in  the  character  of 
Bufo. 

_■  Proud  n»  Apollo,  on  lil«  forked  liHI, 
S.1I  lull-blown  riiifo,  piilToil  l>y  t  v.  r}' quill; 

•;    r.il  wl(h  soft  drdlcalUin.i  idl  d.iy  long, 
Horace  nnd  lie  wont  liaTid  In  li.irnl  In  song." 

But  Bufo  would  himself  enjoy  the 
lumours  of  a  p(H;t;  and  his  claim  to 
tin's  characfi  r  reposes  in  jiarton  llio 
verses  which  ho  wroto  for  the  toast- 
iDg-gla8£C8  of  the  Kit-Kat  Club  in 


Anecdote  and  Oosaip  about  Clubs. 


239 


1703.     Tlie  following  are  two  or 
three  of  them : — 

Duchess  of  St.  Alban's. 
•'ITie  line  of  Vcro,  sn  long  rcnown'd  In  arms, 
Coi}(luiic  s  with  lustre  in  St.  Alban's  charms. 
Her  confinoving  eyes  have  made  their  race 

cimipk'te; 
They  rose  in  valour,  and  in  beauty  set.' 

Lady  Mart  Citunani.L. 
'Fairest  and  l.itest  of  the  beauteous  race, 
Blest  with  y(jur  parent's  wit,  and  her  first 

blooming  face; 
Born  with  our  liberties  in  William's  reign, 
Your  eyes  alone  that  liberty  restrain.' 

Duchess  of  Richmond. 
'  Of  two  fair  Rithmonds  different  ages  boast. 
Theirs  was  the  first,  and  ours  the  brightest 

toast ; 
The    adorers'    offerings    prove    who's    most 

divine, 
They  sacrificed  in  water,  we  in  wine.' 

Besides  the  illustrious  Club  of 
which  he  was  a  member,  the  '  Spec- 
tator' has  registered  societies  of 
nearly  every  conceivable  degree  of 
eccentricity,  and  where  he  could  not 
discover,  has  pleasantly  invented  or 
caricatured.  We  propose  to  follow 
his  guidance  for  a  few  pages,  either 
when  he  deals  with  what  are  pro- 
fessedly historical  clubs,  or  when 
he  celebrates  the  laws  and  usages  of 
what  Mr.  Bright,  in  a  facetious  mood, 
might,  if  he  pleased,  designate  the 
'Spectator's'  'fancy'  clubs.  We 
may,  in  encountering  these  last,  be 
pretty  sure  that  they  have  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  verisimilitude;  and  if 
their  titles  and  objects  are  obnoxious 
to  ridicule,  it  is  tolerably  manifest 
that  they  are  the  portraits  in  dis- 
temper of  other  societies  whose 
bonds  of  brotherhood  were  scarcely 
less  ridiculous  than  these  clubs  of 
the  imagination.  When  we  hear  a 
man's  nose  hyperbolically  measured 
by  the  foot,  we  may  take  our  oath 
that  that  imposing  feature  is  at 
least  a  hair's  brea  ith  more  developed 
than  that  of  ordinary  people.  Eidi- 
cule  itself  can  flonrish  only  as  it  is 
nouri&hed  by  truth  and  as  it  is  in 
some  way  or  other  evolved  from  it. 
Be  thy  spirit  with  us,  oh  most  elo- 
quent of  tlie  sons  of  silence ;  and 
may  our  silvern  speech  grow  ruddy 
whilst  we  sojourn  within  the  sparkle 
of  thy  gold ! 

'  Every  one,'  says  the  '  Spectator,' 
*  has  heard  of  the  Club,  or  rather  the 


confederacy,  of  the  Kings.  This 
grand  Alliance  was  formed  a  little 
after  the  return  of  King  Charles 
II.,  and  admitted  into  it  men  of  all 
qualities  and  professions,  provided 
they  agreed  in  this  surname  of  King, 
which,  as  they  imagined,  sufliciently 
declared  the  owner  of  it  to  be  alto- 
gether untainted  with  republican 
and  "anti-monarchical  principles.' 
Another  Club,  founded  on  the  Chris- 
tian name  common  to  its  members, 
was  that  of  the  Georges,  which  held 
its  meetings  at  the  sign  of  the 
George  on  St.  George's  day,  and  the 
pet  characteristic  oath  of  which  was, 
Brfore  (jeorgel 

There  was  in  the  days  of  the 
Merry  Monarch  a  Club  of  Duellists, 
of  which  every  member  had  called 
out  his  man,  and  the  president  of 
which  had  approved  his  valour  by 
killing  half  a  dozen  in  single  com- 
bat. The  other  members  toi  k  their 
seats  according  to  the  nun.bjr  of 
their  slain.  At  a  side  table  were 
ranged  those  who  had  only  drawn 
blood,  and  who  were  therefore  reck- 
oner 1  as  acolytes  or  postulants.  This 
Club  owed  its  dissolution  to  a 
majority  of  its  members  being  cut 
off  by  the  sword  or  the  executioner, 
not  long  after  its  institution.  Verily, 
of  Clubs,  as  of  individuals,  it  may  be 
said,  '  Whom  the  gods  love,  die 
young.' 

In  a  certain  market  town,  which 
for  reasons  of  delicacy  the  '  Spec- 
tator '  does  not  name,  we  hear  of  a 
Club  of  Fat  Men,  who,  superior  to 
the  charms  of  sprightline-s  and  wit, 
met  only  with  the  benevolent  idea  ot 
keeping  each  other  in  countenance 
Two  doors  of  dilTerent  dimensions 
opened  into  their  room  of  meeting , 
and  if  a  candidate  stuck  fast  in  his 
endeavour  to  enter  by  the  smaller, 
he  was  brought  round  to  the  larger, 
by  which  he  entered  to  be  saluted  as 
a  brother.  This  Club,  as  the  '  Spec- 
tator '  heard, '  though  it  consisted  of 
but  fifteen  jjeople,  weighed  above 
three  ton.' 

The  Society  met  with  an  ill- 
natured  op])osition  from  the  Club 
of  Scarecrows  and  Skeletons,  who 
represented  their  well-conditioned 
foes  as  persons  of  dangerous  prin- 
ciples, and  sought  to  deprive  them 
of  the    magistracy    on   this    plea. 


210 


Anecdote  and  Oossip  about  Clubs. 


The  Clubs  thus  liccnmc  factions, 
ntul  nut  for  awliilc  tlie  society  of  tho 
town;  till  ii  trure  was  couclndcd, 
in  virtui'  of  wliirh  nxcli  of  tho  two 
Cluhs  ckrtf(i  one  of  tlie  two  baihtTs 
of  tlie  town,  '  by  which  means  tho 
principal  niaj,'i.st rates  are  at  this  day 
coupled  like  rabbits,  ouc  fut  and  ono 
lean.' 

The  Ilinndruni  Club  and  the  ^lum 
Club  were  societies  for  tlie  eiicourajj^e- 
meiit  of  silence,  where  hunest  gentle- 
men of  pacitii^  dispositions  sat  toge- 
ther smoking,  n)e<litating,  and  saying 
nothing,  till  midnight.  The  Two- 
penny Club  was  an  institution  of 
arti^ansand  niechaiucs,  wliosc  laws, 
as  giving  'a  pretty  picture  of h)W 
hfe,'  the  '  Spectator '  was  at  the  pains 
to  transcribe  from  the  wall  of  tho 
little  alehouse  where  was  their  ren- 
dezvous. The  curious  reader  may 
find  them  in  the  number  for  Satur- 
day, March  lo,  171 1. 

Mr.  Alexander  Carbuncle,  writing 
from  Oxford,  gives  a  humorous 
account  of  a  certain  Club  which  had 
lx?en  instituted  in  his  University. 
Remarking  on  the  pre  valence  of  such 
hebdomadal  societies  as  the  Punning 
Club,  the  Witty  Club,  and  the 
]Iandsome  Club,  he  i)rocetds  to  in- 
form the  '  most  profound  '  Mr.  Si)ec- 
tator  of  a  Society  which  had  been  in- 
corporated in  burle--que  of  the  last, 
and  which  had  the  generous  audacity 
to  call  itself  the  Ugly  Club.  It  con- 
sisted of  a  Piesident  and  twelve 
fellows,  who  were  eligible  according 
to  certain  statutes  entitled  '  The  Act 
of  Deformity.'  Of  this  code  Mr. 
Carbuncle  is  kind  enough  to  volun- 
teer a  clan.se  or  two : — 

'I.  That  no  Person  whatsoever 
shall  l>e  admitted  without  a  visible 
Qutarily  in  his  Asj)ect,  or  peculiar 
Ca^t  ol  (ounleiiance  ,  of  which  the 
President  and  Ollicers  for  tho  time 
Ix-'ing  are  to  determine,  and  tho 
President  to  liave  tho  casting 
Voice. 

'  II.  That  a  singular  Regard  Ihj 
liad,  upon  Examination,  to  the  Gib- 
Ixjsity  of  tho  (ientlemen  that  otfer 
themselves,  as  Founders'  Kinsmen; 
or  to  tho  Obliijuity  of  their  Figure, 
in  what  sort  soever. 

'HI.  That  if  the  Quantity  of  any 
Man's  No.so  Ikj  eminently  mis-calcu- 
lated,  whether  os    to    Length    or 


Breadth,  he  shall  havoajustPretenco 
to  be  elected. 

'  Lufithj,  That  if  there  shall  Ix! 
two  or  more  Coiui)etitors  for  tlie 
fame  Vacancy,  cutrris  jiari'jus,  he 
that  has  the  thickest  bkiu  to  have 
the  Preference. 

'  EvKKY  Iresh  ^rcmhcr,  npon  his 
first  Night,  is  to  entertain  the  Com- 
pany with  a  Di.sh  of  Cod-fish,  and  a 
Speech  in  Praise  of  yh'soji ;  whoso 
Portraiture  they  have  m  full  Pro- 
portion, or  rather  l)is|iroportion, 
over  the  Chinmey  ;  and  tlu  ir  Design 
is,  as  soon  as  their  Funds  are  sufii- 
ciont,  to  purchase  the  Heads  of 
Thersitcn,  Duns  ycofKH,  Scarron, 
JIuiUhms,  and  tho  old  Gentleman 
in  Oldliam,  with  all  the  celebrated 
ill  Faces  of  Antiquity,  as  Furniture 
for  tho  Club  Room.' 

Although  tho  Club  threw  open 
its  privileges  to  lady  aspirants,  no 
candidate  of  tho  gentler  sex  had 
offered  her.self,  up  to  the  date  of  Mr. 
Carbuncle's  letter,  although  that 
gentleman  did  not  yet  despair  of 
female  recruits.  The  motto  of  tho 
Society  seems  to  have  been :  '  Lo 
beau,  c'est  Ic  laid.'  It  encouraged 
the  poetry  of  ugliness.  A  Mrs. 
Touchwood,  upon  the  lo.ss  of  her 
two  fore-teeth,  became  the  subject 
of  a  congratulatory  ode ;  and  Mrs. 
Vizard,  having  been  extensively 
manipulated  by  the  small-pox,  and 
so  rendered  reasonably  ugly,  became 
'a  top  toast  in  tho  Club.'  Tho 
'  Spectator,'  whose  face  was  not 
quite  so  long  as  it  was  broad,  had 
tho  touching  honour  of  being  ad- 
mitted 'informis  societatis  socius' 
on  the  strength  of  his  own  testimo- 
nial, and  without  inevious  personal 
examination.  The  recipient  ,of  so 
delicate  and  singular  a  distinction 
was  not  a  little  sensible  of  the 
favour,  stamping  as  it  did  the  Club's 
approval  at  onco  of  bis  deformity 
and  veracity. 

But  his  measure  of  gratification 
was  not  yet  filled.  A  month  or 
two  after,  ho  w.xs  invited  to  be  ad- 
mitted ml  luiitlri),  in  a  like  corjiora- 
tion,  the  Club  of  ll^dy  Faces,  esta- 
blished at  the  sister  university.  Tho 
Cantab  who  conveyed  this  invitation 
is  jealous  for  the  honour  of  his 
(iliuu  vuttiv,  and  argues  for  tho 
superior  anticiuity  of  his  Club  over 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


241 


that  of  the  Oxford  (Hic,  llic  former 
having  been  originally  instituted,  as 
he  says,  with  an  air  of  most  innocent 
mystery,  'in  the  merry  reign  of 
K— g  Ch-lcs  II.'  The  Cambridge 
man's  letter  would  indicate  that  his 
Society  were  not  all  volunteers,  and 
enlarges  upon  the  subterfuges  to 
which  the  modesty  of  proposed 
members  drove  them  to  escape  from 
the  eminence  and  responsibihty  of 
its  fellowship.  This  comparative 
reluctance  to  identify  themselves 
willingly  with  ugliness  would  appear 
to  have  been  discriminative  of  the 
Cantabs,  who  some  years  after  in- 
stituted a  Club,  contined  to  them- 
selves, called  the  Beautiful.  The 
'  Athenfeum '  says  that  '  the  mem- 
bers —  men,  of  course  —  painted 
dimples  on  their  cheeks,  if  they  did 
not  already  possess  them !  Tins 
was  at  least  reported.  This  Club 
held  that  the  neckcloth  made  the 
man.  One  of  the  members  is  said  to 
have  remarked,  "  When  I  undress 
at  night  it  is  like  heaven !  But  a 
man  must  suffer  in  order  to  be  cap- 
tivating !"  '  The  poor  fellow  is  to 
be  pitied  for  his  torture;  but  Nar- 
cissus and  Adonis,  our  faithful 
readers,  to  whom  Nature  has  been 
more  bountiful,  will  hardly  recog- 
nise the  necessity  which  mastered 
him.  And  that  the  present  writer 
may  venture  to  combine  comfort 
with  elegance  may  be  pretty  well 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  our 
travelling  passport  last  year  de- 
scribed our  face  with  not  less  poetry 
than  precision,  as  offering  a  fair 
idea  of  Apollo  in  his  better  days — 
when,  that  is,  his  face  had  become  a 
little  bearded,  and  dashed  with  a 
portion  of  the  severer  dignity  of  Jove. 
Let  lis  be  humble,  my  brothers. 

The  Cambridge  correspondent 
trivunphantly — to  himself,  at  least — 
vindicating  the  antiquity  of  his  own 
Ugly  Faces  over  the  Ugly  Club  of 
Oxford,  assured  the  '  Spectator '  that 
the  former  were  of  coeval  date  with 
the  '  Lowngers,'  a  Club  of '  the  same 
standing  with  the  University  itself.' 
The  Lowngers  were  a  sect  of  Philo- 
sophers who  bore  an  external  and 
nominal  resemblance  to  the  Peripa- 
tetics of  old,  but  who  did  not 
slavishly  imitate  the  latter  in  such 
minor  matters  as  studious  specula- 

VOIi.  XI.— NO.  LXIII. 


tion  and  the  imparting  or  the  ac- 
quirement of  instruction.  There 
seems  to  have  been  something,  in- 
deed, about  their  lofty  indifference 
to  the  gravest  sublunary  things 
which  argued  an  Oriental  genea- 
logy. One  of  their  grand  crusades 
wais  against  Time,  who,  as  a  general 
foe  -and  destroyer,  they  voted  ought 
to  be  himself  destroyed  and  mur- 
dered without  mercy.  Cowley,  who 
was  once  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, may  possibly  have  belonged 
to  this  venerable  fraternity,  if  we 
may  trust  the  following  eloquent 
lines  of  his  *  Complaint :' — 

■  Business  !  the  fiivolnus  prefi'nce 
or  human  lusts  to  shake  off  innocence  ; 
Business  !  the  grave  inipertim  iicc  ; 
Business  !  the  thing  wliich  1  of  all  things  hate ; 
Business  !  the  contradiction  of  thy  fate.' 

These  lines  are  presumably  a  poetic 
rendering  of  a  maxim  of  the  Lown- 
gers, '  that  Business  was  designed 
only  for  Knaves,  and  study  for 
Blockheads.'  The  more  accomplished 
of  these  philosophers  of  negation 
would  contemplate  a  sun-dial  for 
several  consecutive  hours  ;  less  ad- 
vanced fellows  would  find  their  at- 
tempts at  attaining  the  supreme  in- 
difference they  cultivated  diverted 
by  street  signs  and  shop  windows, 
by  the  news  that  a  butcher  had  re- 
lieved a  calf  from  its  burden  of  mor- 
tality, or  that  a  cat  had  added  a 
batch  of  kittens  to  the  population  of 
a  mews.  The  speculative  reader 
may  profitably  comi^are  with  these 
western  philosophers  the  Nihilists 
of  the  farther  East,  and  the  fourteenth 
century  Omphalopsychites  or  Umbi— 
licani  of  Mount  Athos. 

The  Amorous  Club  was  another 
Society  which  had  its  head-quarters 
at  Oxford.  The  members  were  all 
in  love;  and  by  their  rules  were 
obliged  to  celebrate  the  objects  of 
their  affections  in  becoming  verse. 
No  man  was  thought  good  company 
at  its  convivial  meetings  who  did 
not  sigh  five  times  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour ;  and  every  member  was  reck- 
oned very  absurd  if  he  was  so  self- 
contained  as  to  return  a  direct 
answer  to  any  question.  'In  fine,, 
the  whole  assembly  was  made  up  of 
absent  men,  that  is,  of  such  persons 
as  had  lost  their  locality,  and  whose 


212 


Anrcflit'  and  Go  sij>  ohont  Ciubi. 


minds  nnd  bodies  nr^vcr  kept  com- 
pany with  one  iiiioilier.' 

The  /  "loious  t  Inb  was  an  a'?so- 
ciatiun  oi  men  who  were  allowed 
eomo  pretensions  to  intellect,  but 
in  whom  this  wius  dominated  by  the 
heart.  But  the  Frinije-CJlovo  Club, 
a  metropolitan  institution  of  feeble 
inutators,  was  simply  a  refuse  for 
the  destitute,  wlio,  havinj^  no  store 
of  brains  to  furnish  expressions  for 
their  passion,  vented  it  all  on  their 
dress,  which  was  ealcnla'eil  to  show 
them  visibly  to  the  world  as  lovers. 
They  were  such  fool—ish  persons, 
as  Mr.  Carlyle  would  coini)assion- 
ately  call  them,  even  before  their 
wits  liad  been  impaired  by  the  in- 
tensity of  their  affections,  that 
'  their  irrcsnlaritics  could  not  fur- 
nish sullicient  variety  of  folly  to 
atford  daily  new  impertinences.' 
This  pancity  of  invention  was  in 
the  end  tlie  death  of  llie  society. 

The  Everlasting  Club  is  worthy 
of  being  descril'ed  in  the  '  Sjiec- 
tator's  '  own  words.  In  his  nnmt>er 
for  Wednesday,  March  23,  17",  Jio 
says:  'A  friend  of  mine  complaining 
of  a  Tradesman  who  is  related  to 
liim,  after  liaving  represented  In'm 
as  a  very  idle,  worthless  lei  low, 
who  neglected  his  Family,  and  spent 
the  most  of  his  time  over  a  Bottle, 
told  me,  to  conckulc  his  Character, 
that  he  was  a  member  of  the  J'^rur- 
lastin;/  Vlnh.  So  very  odd  a  Title 
raised  my  Curiosity  to  inquire  into 
the  Nature  of  a  Club  that  had  such 
a  sounding  Name;  upon  Avhich  my 
Iritnd  gavo  mo  the  following  Ac- 
count: 

'  The  Kvrrhstinfj  CJuh  consists 
of  a  hundrr d  Members,  who  divide 
the  whole  twenty-four  Ilours  among 
them  in  such  a  manner,  that  the 
Club  sits  Day  and  Night  from  one 
end  of  the  Year  to  the  other;  no 
Party  presuming  to  rise  till  they 
are  relieved  by  tlinso  who  arc  in 
course  to  suce(<(l  them.  J?y  this 
means  a  Meuib(  r  of  the  i'.nrtuMitu] 
<'liib  never  wonts  company;  for 
tho'  he  is  i\(ti  upon  Duty  liiin- 
nelf,  he  is  sure  to  find  Fomo  who 
arc;  f>o  that  if  he  l>c  disposed  to 
take  a  Whet,  a  Nooning,  an  Even- 
ing's draught,  or  a  IJottlo  alfer 
Midnight,  he  g(K'8  to  the  Club,  and 
linds  u  knot  of  Friends  to  his  Mind. 


'It  is  a  Alaxira  in  this  Club  That 
tlio  Steward  never  dies;  for  as  tlu-y 
succeed  each  other  by  way  of  Rota- 
tion no  man  is  to  quit  tlio  great 
Elbow-chair  wliic^h  stands  at  tho 
upper  End  of  tlie  Table,  till  his  Suc- 
cessor is  in  Kealiness  to  fill  it,  in.so- 
much  that  there  has  not  been  a  Scde 
ruanilr  in  the  Jleraory  of  ^bin. 

'Tnis  Club  was  instituted  towards 
the  End  (or  as  some  of  them  say, 
about  tho  Miildle)  of  the  Civil  Wars, 
and  contimied  without  Interruption 
till  theTimeof  tlie  a  mil  /Vrc,  whicli 
burnt  them  out,  and  dispersed  them 
for  several  Weeks.  The  Steward  at 
that  time  maintained  his  Post  till 
he  liad  like  to  have  bren  blown  up 
with  a  neighbouring  House  (which 
had  been  demolished  in  order  to 
stop  tlie  Fire) ;  and  would  not  leave; 
the  Chair  at  last,  till  he  had  emptied 
all  the  Bottles  upon  the  Table,  and 
received  repeated  J)irections  from 
the  Club  to  withdraw  himself.  This 
Steward  is  frequently  talked  of  in 
the  Club  and  looked  upon  by  every 
IMember  of  it  as  a  greater  ]\lan  than 
the  famous  Captain  mentioned  in  my 
Lord  Clarendon,  who  was  burnt  in 
his  Ship  because  he  would  not  quit 
it  without  Orders.  lie  said  that  to- 
wards tlio  Close  of  1700,  being  tho 
Great  Year  of  Jubilee,  the  Club  had 
it  under  Consideration  whether  they 
should  break  up  or  continue  their 
Session ;  but  after  many  Speeches 
and  Deliates,  it  wa';  at  length  agreed 
to  pit  out  tho  other  Century.  This 
TlePolufionpa.ssed  in  a  general  Club, 
Ncmihc,  Coiifradir'  utc. 

'HaviniT  given  this  short  .\ccount 
of  the  Institution  and  Continuation 
of  the  /■:>'.  r/iistiixj  ''/lib,  I  shall  hero 
endeavour  to  lay  something  of  the 
Manners  and  Characteristics  of  its 
several  Mcmbcr3,  which  I  shall  do 
according  to  the  best  Lights  I  have 
received  in  this  Matter. 

'  It  appears  by  their  Books  in  gene- 
ral, that  since  their  first  Institution 
they  have  smoked  Fifty  Tun  of  To- 
bacco, drunk  thirty  tlunisand  Butts 
of  .Me,  One  Thousiii<l  Hogsheads  of 
Ited  Port,  Two  Hiimlred  15arrels  of 
Brandy,  and  a  Kilderkin  of  Small 
Beer.  There  has  likewise  lieen  a 
great  Consumption  ot  Cards.  It  is 
also  said  that  they  observe  the  Law 
in  Ben  Jon.'-oti's  Club,  which  orders 


Ancciliile  (luii  (josi-ip  about  Clubs. 


24  i 


the  Fire  to  be  always  kept  in  (focus 
pereiuiis  csfo)  as  well  for  the  conve- 
nience of  lighting  their  Pipes,  as  to 
cure  the  dampness  of  the  Club- 
Room.  They  have  an  Old  Woman  in 
the  nature  of  a  Vestal,  whose  Busi- 
ness it  is  to  cherish  and  perpetuate 
the  Fire,  which  burns  from  Genera- 
tion to  Generation,  and  lias  seen  the 
Glass-house  Fires  in  and  out  above 
an  Hundred  times. 

'The  Everlasting  Chih  treats  all 
other  Clubs  with  an  Eye  of  Con- 
tempt, and  talks  even  of  the  Kit-Kat 
and  October  as  a  couple  of  Upstarts. 
Their  ordinary  Discourse  (as  much 
as  I  have  been  able  to  learn  it) 
turns  altogether  upon  such  Adven- 
tures as  have  passed  in  their  own 
Assembly ;  of  Members  who  have 
t;ikcn  the  glass  in  their  turn  for  a 
week  together,  without  stirring  out 
of  the  Club;  of  others  who  have 
smoaked  an  hundred  Pipes  at  a  Sit- 
ting ;  of  others  who  have  not  missed 
their  Morning's  Draught  lor  twenty 
years  together.  Sometimes  they 
speak  in  raptures  of  a  Eun  of  Ale  in 
King  Charles's  Eeign,  and  sometimes 
reflect  with  astonisliment  upon 
games  of  Whist  which  have  been 
miraculously  recovered  by  Members 
of  the  Society,  when  in  all  human 
probability  the  case  was  desperate. 

'They  delight  in  several  old 
Catches,  which  they  sing  at  all  HoiTrs 
to  encourage"  one  another  to  moisten 
their  Clay,  and  grow  immortal,  by 
drinking,  with  many  other  edifying 
Exhortations  of  like  nature. 

'  There  are  four  general  Clubs 
held  in  a  Year,  at  which  Times  they 
fill  up  Vacancies,  appoint  Waiters, 
confirm  the  old  Fire- Maker  or  elect 
a  new  one,  settle  Contributions  for 
Coals,  Pipes,  Tobacco,  and  other 
Necessaries. 

'  The  Senior  Member  has  lived  the 
whole  Club  twice  over,  and  has  been 
drunk  with  the  Grandfathers  of  some 
of  the  present  sitting  Members.' 

The  title  of  the  preceding  Club 
has  a  sort  of  affinity  with  that  of  the 
Last  Man  Club,  which,  beginning 
with  a  certain  number  of  members, 
was  never  to  admit  a  new  one.  A 
bottle  of  port  wine  was  sealed  up 
in  the  room  in  which  they  assem- 
bled, and  when  only  one  member 
survived  it  was  to  fall  to  him  to  sit 


in  the  room  and  drink  tho  wine  to 
tlie  memory  of  the  dead  !     It  is  taid, 
however,  that  when  only  two  mem- 
bers survived,  they  met  and  emptied 
the  magnum  between  them.     Pour 
fellows!  neither  of  them  dared  to 
face  the  notion  of  the  ghostly  soli- 
tude in  reserve  for  the  longest  liver. 
He  would  be  doing  a  pleasant  and 
benevolent  service  to  '  London  So- 
ciety' who  would,  in  the  spirit  of 
Gay,  sing  a  new  '  Trivia,  or  the  Art 
of  Walking  the  Streets  of  London/ 
adapted  to  the  peculiar  trials  and 
crosses  of  the  current  year.    Since 
the  *  stamping  out'  of  the  garotte, 
the  slaughter  of  human   beings  in 
the    streets    of   the    metropolis — a 
branch  of  industry  which  is  carried 
on  at  the  rate  of  3 1 3  annually,  in  leap 
year  314,  being  one  death  for  each 
day  in  the  year,  exclusive  of  Sunday, 
which  is  generally  a  day  of  rest  in 
this  profession — has  been  confined 
to  draymen,  carters,  and  cab-drivers. 
But  early  in  the  last  century,  when- 
Gay  wrote  the 'Trivia'  referred  to, 
there  were  nightly  perils  to  life  and 
limb  arising  not  only  frtim  profes- 
sional   plunderers  and   murderers, 
but  from  young  dissipated  bloods 
and  rakes  who  incorporated  them- 
selves in  clubs  for  the  prosecution  of 
amateur  violence.    To  slit  noses,  to 
crop  ears,  to  gouge  out  eyes,  to  roll 
ladies  in  barrels  down  Snow  Hill, 
and  other  amenities  of  a  like  nature, 
were  their  ordinary  exploits.      In 
the  third  jDart  of  the  '  Trivia,'  which 
exhibits  rules  for  the  safe  and  com- 
modious traverse  of  the  streets  by 
nii-h'.  Gay  thus  advises  his  reader  — 

'  Where   Lincoln's  Inn,   wide   space,  Is  raileJ 

around, 
Cross  not  with    venturous  step;  there  oft  is 

found 
The  Unking  thief,  who    while  the  daylight 

slione 
Made  the  walls  echo  with  his  begging  tone : 

That  crutch,  which  late  compassion  moved, 

shall  \\  ound 
Thy  bleeding    head,  and    fell    Ihee    to    the 

ground. 
Though  thou  art  tempted  by  the  llnkm.iTi's 

r-alC 
Yet  trust  him  not  along  the  lonely  wall ; 
In  the  midway  he'll  quench  the  flaming  brand. 
And  share  the  booty  witli  Ihe  pilfering  band. 
Still  keep  the  public  streets,  wliere  oily  rays,  ' 
Shot  from  Uie  crystal  lamp,  o'erspread   the 

ways.' 

B  3 


24  i 


Antid'di  iiiKt  G'('S*!j;  abuiit  Clubs. 


And  apnin— 

•Now  U  llie  lime  that  rakes  tlioii  rcTol«  ki-cp  ; 
Kindlpr.i  of  riot,  enemies  I't  slitp 
His  scattered  ponce  the  flylns  Nicker  JIIpkh 
AnJ   wilt   the   copper    showei    Ihi    ru.scniont 

rinps 
Who  has  not   hcarc    the  Scowercr'.'   n-.idni;;lit 

fnme  ? 
Who  has  n<it  trembled  nt  the  Molioi  k"s  naliir  i 
Wai  there  o  wnichmnn  t^mk  his  honrly  rounds, 
Sjfi!     from    their     blows,    or     new-invenled 

wounds  r 
1  pass  their  desperate  dei'dN  ana  mischief!  dune. 
Where  fron    Snowhil.    I'laik   ileepy   lorrcnls 

njn  , 
How  matrons   hoopcc    wuliii   tiu   D0R>nead's 

«o    h. 
Wert   tuuiblcc    funou-,    tiicnci  ;    iht   'oUing 

tomb 
O'er  tlic  stonc^  thundl'^^  txiiino!  truir.  sidt:  to 

side  : 
So  Ki-Bnlus  to  save  hit  countrj  died  ' 

With  such  perils  to  encounter 
from  truculent  fop^  and  tools  on  the 
one  hand,  and  from  professional 
marauders  on  tlio  other — not  to 
mention  the  ill-lit,  half-paved,  mud- 
drenched  condition  of  the  thorough- 
fares— it  is  not  wonderful  that  tlio 
graver  Londoner  found  it  advisable 
to  shorten  the  distance  Ixitween  liis 
home  and  his  club  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. This  led  to  the  formation  of 
what  were  called  Street  Clubs,  where 
the  householder  or  inhabitant  of  a 
particular  street  would  l)e  able  to 
enjoy  the  society  ot  his  neiRlibonrs 
at  a  tavern  within  easy  reach  of  his 
dwelling.  To  such  aclubthe'iSpec- 
tator'  wliimsically  refers:  'There 
are,'  he  says,  'at  present  in  several 
Parts  of  tliis  City  what  tliey  call 
Str<rt.(;iiil/:i,  in  which  the  chief  In- 
habitants of  the  Street  converse  to- 
gether every  night.  I  remember, 
upon  my  enquiring  after  Lodgings 
ia  (Jrmoii'l  ^in-it,  the  Landlord,  to 
recommmd  that  Quarter  of  the 
Town,  told  me,  there  was  at  that  time 
a  very  good  Clul)  in  it;  he  also  told 
me,  upon  further  Discourse  with 
bim,  that  two  or  three  noisie  Coun- 
try SqiiireH,  who  were  settled  there 
the  Year  InjfDro,  hiul  considerably 
sunk  tlio  Price  of  House- Kent;  aixl 
that  tlio  Clul>  (to  prevent  the  like 
Inconveniences  for  the  future)  had 
Thoughts  of  taking  every  House  that 
became  vacant  into  their  own  Hands, 
till  they  had  found  a  Tenant  for  it, 
of  a  sociable  Nature  and  good  Con- 
versation.' 


Gay  has  mentioned  the  Nicker, 
the  Scowerer,  and  the  Mohock 
amongst  thtjse  who  made  the  uinht 
of  London  hideou.s.  '  But  it  iia<l 
been  for  many  previous  years  the 
favourite  amusement  of  dissolute 
young  men  to  form  themselves  into 
Chii>s  and  Associations  for  commit- 
ting all  sorts  of  excesses  in  the 
]iublic  stnets,  and  alike  attacking 
orderly  pedestrians  and  even  de- 
fenceless women.  These  Clubs  took 
various  slang  designations.  At  the 
Pestoration  they  were  "  Mums"  and 
"  Tityre-tus."  They  were  succeeded 
by  the  "  Hectors'  and  "Scourers." 
when,  says  Sliaiiwell,  "  a  man  could 
not  go  from  the  Pose  Tavern  to  tlio 
Piazza  once  l)ut  he  must  venture 
liis  lite  twice.'"  Then  ?amo  the 
"  Nickers,"  wiioso  deliglit  it  was  to 
smash  windows  with  showers  ot 
halfpence;  next  were  the  "  Hawk- 
uoites ;"  and  lastly,  the  "  Mohocks."  ' 

The  last  arc  describeil  by  a  cor- 
respondent ot  the  '  Spectator"  as  'a 
set  of  men  (it  you  will  allow  tliem 
a  place  in  that  Species  of  Pemg)  who 
have  lately  [1712J  erected  them- 
selves into  a  Nocturnal  Fraternity 
under  tiio  title  of  the  M</ii(x:L--(:iah,a 
Name  Iwriowed  it  seems  from  a  sort 
of  I'ainiilxih  in  1 11(1  in,  who  sub.«ist 
by  plundering  and  devouring  all  tlio 
Nations  about  them.  The  President 
is  styled  Kinprror  of  IIh-  Mohocks; 
and  his  arms  area  7'«/7./.s7i  Crescent, 
which  hi.s  Imperial  ^lajesty  bears  at 
present  in  a  very  extraordinary 
manner  engraven  on  his  Forehead. 
Agreeable  to  their  Name,  the  avowed 
design  of  their  Institution  is  ]\lis- 
cliief ;  and  upon  this  Foundation  all 
their  Rules  and  Orders  are  framed. 
An'outrageous  Ambition  of  doing  all 
pos.siblo  hurt  to  their  Fellow-Crea- 
tures, is  the  greuL  Cement  of  their 
As.sombly,  and  tlio  only  Qualilicatioii 
required  in  the  Members.  In  order 
to  exert  this  Princi|)lo  in  its  full 
Streiif^th  and  Perfection,  they  take 
rare  to  drink  themselves  to  a  piteh, 
that  is,  l)eyond  the  Po.ssil)ility  of  at- 
tending to  any  Motions  of  KeaM)n  or 
Humanity;  then  make  a  general 
Sally,  and  attack  all  that  are  so  un- 
fortunate us  to  walk  the  Streets 
through  which  they  patrol.  Somo 
aro  knocked  down,  fithers  stabbed, 
otliers    cut    aod   carbonadoed.     To 


Anecdule  and  Gusvlj)  ah  lut  Cluba. 


245 


put  the  Watch  to  a  total  Eoiit,  and 
mortify  some  of  those  inoffoui^ive 
MiHtia,  is  reckoned  a  Cuup  d'edat. 
The  particular  Talents  by  which 
these  Misanthropes  are  distinguished 
from  one  another,  consist  in  the  va- 
rious kinds  of  Barbarities  which  they 
execute  upon  their  Prisoners.  Some 
are  celebrated  for  a  happy  dexterity 
in  tipping  the  Lion  iipon  them ; 
which  is  performed  by  sqiieezing 
the  Nose  fiat  to  the  Face,  and  boring 
out  the  Ej'es  with  their  Fingers. 
Others  are  called  the  Dancing-Mas- 
ters, and  ttach  their  Scholars  to  cut 
Capers  by  running  Swords  through 
their  Legs ;  a  new  Invention,  whether 
originally  French  I  cannot  tell.  A 
third  sort  are  the  Tumblers,  whose 
office  it  is  to  set  Women  on  their 
heads  and  commit  certain  Barbari- 
ties on  their  limbs.  But  these  I 
forbear  to  mention,  because  they 
cannot  but  be  shocking  to  the  Eeader 
as  well  as  the  Spectator.' 

In  addition  to  the  Lion-Tippers, 
the  Dancing-Masters,  and  the  Tum- 
blers, there  was  another  species  of 
the  genus  Mohock  called  the 
Sweaters.  '  It  is,  it  seems,  the  Cus- 
tom for  half  a  dozen,  or  more,  of 
these  well-disposed  Savages,  as  soon 
as  they  have  enclosed  tlie  Person 
upon  whom  they  design  the  favour 
of  a  Sweat,  to  whip  out  their  Swords, 
aud  holding  them  parallel  to  the 
Horizon,  they  describe  a  sort  of 
Magic  Circle  round  about  him  with 
che  Points.  As  soon  as  this  Piece 
of  Conjur;ition  is  performed,  and  the 
Patient  without  doubt  already  be- 
ginning to  wax  warm,  to  forward 
the  Operation,  that  Member  of  the 
Circle,  towards  whom  he  is  so  rude 
as  to  turn  his  Back  first,  runs  his 
Sword  directly  into  that  Part  of  the 
Patient  wherein  School-boys  are 
punished ;  and  as  it  is  very  natural 
to  imagine  this  will  soon  make  him 
tack  about  to  some  other  Point, 
every  Gentleman  does  himself  the 


same  justice  as  often  as  ho  receives 
the  Aliront.  Alter  this  Jig  has  gone 
two  or  three  times  round,  and  the 
Patient  is  thought  to  have  sweat 
suHiciently,  he  is  very  handsomely 
rubbed  down  by  some  Attendants, 
who  carry  with  them  Instruments 
for  that  purpose,  and  so  disciiargtd.' 

To  allay  the  panic  which  the  pub- 
lication of  such  particulars  was  cal- 
culated to  provoke,  it  was  contended 
on  the  other  hand  that  the  Mohocks 
had  only  an  imaginary  existence, 
and  were  '  like  those  spectres  and 
apparitions  which  frighten  several 
towns  and  villages  in  her  Majesty's 
dominions,  though  they  were  never 
seen  by  any  of  the  inhabitants. 
Others  are  apt  to  think  that  these 
Mohocks  are  a  kind  of  bull-beggars, 
first  invented  by  prudent  married 
men  and  masters  of  lamilies,  in  order 
to  deter  their  wives  and  daughters 
from  taking  the  air  at  unreasonable 
hours ;  and  that  when  they  tell  them 
the  HloJiocks  will  cafch  thein,  it  is  a 
caution  of  the  same  nature  with 
that  of  our  forefathers,  when  they 
bid  their  children  have  a  care  of 
raw-head  and  bloody-bones.' 

Whether  or  not  the  Mohocks  were 
such  creatures  of  the  imagination, 
the  Temple — if  the  'Guardian'  of 
March  24,  171 3,  be  not  scandalous 
— had  tlae  merit  of  furnishing  to 
their  ranks  a  considerable  portion 
of  their  recruits.  And,  at  any  rate, 
their  name  was  enough  to  occasion 
some  trepidation  to  that  mirror  of 
knighthood.  Sir  Eoger  de  Coverley, 
durmg  his  occasional  sojourns  in 
town.  Swift,  also,  for  fear  of  re- 
'ceiving  any  delicate  attention  at 
their  hands,  was  accustomed  to  dis- 
burse the  hire  of  a  coach,  when  he 
would  otherwise  have  saved  the 
expense  by  walking.  '  They  go  on 
still,'  [in  spite  of  a  royal  proclama- 
tion] he  says, '  and  cut  people's  faces 
every  night!  but  they  shan't  cut 
mine ;  I  like  it  better  as  it  is.' 


{To  he  continued.) 


S46 

OVKR  A  BRULE-GUEULE. 

TT'EEN,  wintry  stars  through  Dane  Court  chu-trces  gleam, 
Av     Down  the  Lohg  Avenue  the  night- winds  moan; 
Late,  by  a  waning  fire,  I  sit  and  dream 
Over  a  brule-guoule  alone. 

Ah !  Cou'^in  Helen  of  the  low-archM  brow. 

And  ninl)cr  hair,  and  dewy-violet  eyes, 
Why  must  your  face,  through  floating  smoke- haze,  now 

Witchiugly-winsome  arise? 

And  not  the  face  it  pays  to  love  the  best — 
The  brow,  the  eyes,  the— well !  shr  calls  it  hair! — 

Of  I^Iiss  Molasses,  that  too- amorous  West 
— Indian  millionaire  ? 

Whom  I  should  marry,  everybody  says. 

And  think  myself  in  luck  exceedingly  ; 
A  hopeless  detrimental,  all  my  days 

Jew-ridden.     Misery  me! 

It's  likely  I  shall  come  to  that,  I  fear. 

Hunted  by  duns  and  my  Barbadian  loo! 
Then  why  on  earth  do  I  eit  dreaming  hero. 

Penniless  Helen,  of  you  ? 

I,  who  am  yet  accounted  worldly-wise, 

Sublime  in  cynical  i)liil.isophy, 
Why  do  I  shudder  when  the  Dark  One  sighs? 

— Execrate  Brabazon  Leigh? 

That '  rent-roll  Cupid,'  worshipp'd  Golden  Calf 

Of  chaperons  truckling  at  his  cloven  feet. 
And  needy  belles,  who  stand  his  horsey  chalT, 

Cringe  to  his  insolent  l^Ieat. 

I  know  what  brings  him  down  to  Dane  Court.     Ho 
Has  made  up  what  he's  plea-'ed  to  call  his  mind 

To  bid  for  Cousin  Helen.     Well !  she'll  bo 
Surely  alouo  of  her  kind 

If  ho  cant  buy  her  ;  if  the  blinding  gold 

Don  t  'gild  the  ttraighteu'd  forehead  of  the  fdol,' 

Till  it  Fctui  Jove's  to  Daniie.  Lay  hold 
Fast  by  the  feminine  rule, 

That '  monpy  makyth  man  '—makes  god  of  thin 
Dull,  vicious  bull-calf.     Jove's  in  love!     He'd  p.iy 

Perhaps  lialf  a  million  for  a  lover's  kiss! 
Don't  let  tho  clmnco  slip  away  i 


i 


Alls  ^■  N  Its  from  Choice  Pidurts.  247 

Be  wise,  mon  tvfont.    Take  him.   Where's  the  sin  ? 

Betises  alike,  love,  honour,  honesty. 
When  either  bars  you  from  the  prize  you'd  win 

Cheaply  by  one  little  lie! 

And  I'll  become  my  wiser  self;  and  take 

Molasses'  liberal  offer.     From  to-night 
With  dreams  of  you  and  this  love-folly  break. 

Ah !  but,  in  utter  despite 

Of  all  I  try  to  be  and  think,  your  face 

Again,  my  Helen,  whom  I  must  lorgct, 
Rises  before  me  with  such  tender  grace. 

Darling !  it  conquers  me  yet. 

And,  so,  while  pale  stars  through  the  casement  gleam. 
And  in  the  Dane  Court  elms  the  night-winds  moau. 

Still  by  the  dead  white  brands  I  sit  and  dream 
Fondly  and  sadly,  alone.  Eui. 


AETISTS'  NOTES  FEOM  CHOICE  PICTUEES. 

I^Dnciitoaolf  tntvomirtns  tijc  33atltff^  tn  iHt^^  EtdjIanU  ai  \)ii 
dfrtcntf^. 

I  TSUALLY  these  Notes  have  dealt  In  considering  a  picture  of  this 
U  with  only  parts  of  pictures.  class,  in  which  the  ]iainter  has  given 
The  fairest  face  lias  been  taken  as  an  palpable  shape  to  the  conception  of 
illustration  of  the  painter's  ideal  of  an  eminent  writer,  we  have  a  double 
femalebeauty,  and  one  or  two  others  duty  to  perform.  We  have  to  as- 
of  feebler  attractions  have  been  certain  the  intention  of  the  author, 
placed  alongside  it,  to  serve  as  foils  and  how  far  the  painter  has  caught 
or  supporters.  In  like  manner  the  his  spirit  and  embodied  his  meaning; 
comments  have  treated  mainly  on  and  then,  from  the  painter's  own 
the  fair  one's  typical  character,  and  point  of  view,  to  estimate  his  work, 
the  artist's  greater  or  less  success  in  The  comedy  of  the  'Good- 
depicting  it.  Here,  however,  we  set  natured  Man,'  from  which  Mr.  Frith 
before  the  reader  a  complete  picture,  has  taken  his  subject,  was  written  by 
by  means  of  an  engraving,  which.  Goldsmith  in  1767,  and  played  at 
from  its  size  and  careful  execution,  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  under  Col- 
represents  it  as  fairly  as  woodcut  man's  ausi>ices,  at  the  beginning  of 
well  can.  And  as  our  pencil  note  1768,  exactly  two  years  after  the 
differs,  so  must  that  of  the  pen.  We  publication  of  the  '  Vicar  of  Wake- 
propose,  if  jou  will,  to  examine  to-  Held.'  It  was  his  first  effort  in 
gether,  somewhat  in  detail,  Mr.  comedy,  and  his  friends  looked 
Frith's' Honey  wood  and  theBaihffs.'  doubtfully  on  the  experiment.  Tiiey 
It  may  be  a  useful  and  need  not  be  an  questioned  his  wit ;  they  distrusted 
unpleasing  exercise.  The  original  is  his  tact;  they  feared  he  could  not 
in  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  reach  the  genteel  taste  then  in 
and  can  be  readily  referred  to.  vogue ;    but   they  were   most    in 


348 


Artials'  Nvlcs  fmrn  Choice  Pirlnres. 


despair  Ix^causo  ho  liaJ  thrown  tlio 
popular  idol  (Kelly)  ovtrlioanl,  and 
was  looking  for  his  model  U)  tho 
dramatists  of  the  i)ast  ap;o — when, 
as  he  wrote  in  liis  Preface,  '  little 
more  was  desired  by  an  audience 
than  nature  and  humour,  in  what- 
ever walks  of  life  they  were  most 
conspicuous.'  Their  fears  were  in 
a  great  measure  justified.  The  play 
was  hut  moclerately  successful. 
Audiences  preferred  Kelly  and  his 
'  genteel  comedy '  of '  False  Delicacy ' 
— now,  happily,  utterly  dead  and 
forgotten — and  ]ironounced  Gold- 
smith's humour  '  low.'  Johnson, 
however,  championed  tho  '  Good- 
natured  Man  '  nobly.  He  wrote  the 
prologue,  which  was  spoken  by 
Bensley,  attended  the  rehearsal,  was 
present  with  Burke  on  the  first 
night,  and  praiseil  tho  play  as  the 
best  comedy  that  had  appeared  since 
the  '  Provoked  Husband.'  There 
had  Ix'cn  of  late,  he  said,  no  such  cha- 
racter exhibited  on  the  stage  as  that 
of  Croaker,  and,  '  Sir,'  continued  he, 
'  there  is  all  the  difference  in  tho 
world  between  characters  of  nature 
and  characters  of  manners.  .  .  . 
Characters  of  manners  are  very  en- 
tertaining; but  they  are  to  l>e  nn- 
derstood  by  a  more  superficial 
observer  than  chanictcrs  of  nature, 
where  a  man  must  dive  into  tho  re- 
cc.s.ses  of  tho  human  heart.' 

Praise  like  this  was  exactly  what 
Goldsmith  needed  under  his  disap- 
pointment. '  To  delineate  character 
of  this  kind.'  ho  declared  in  his 
Preface, '  was  his  principal  aim ;'  and 
it  was  this  that  Johnson,  first  of 
critics  as  ho  held  hitn  to  be,  had  at 
once  pronounced  to  be  the  di.stinctive 
feature  of  tho  play ;  that  which 
rendered  it  the  best  comedy  of  tho 
ago,  and  for  tho  perception  of  which 
a  man  must  dive  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  human  heart.  Yes ; 
this  last  touch  must  have  thoroughly 
satisfied  '  our  little  bard.'  The  well- 
known  phra.so  Ixilongs  to  this 
comedy  :  John.'jon  had  so  designated 
l;ira  in  the  I'rologue,  but,  finding  it 
touched  his  sensitive  feelings,  ultered 
it  to  '  our  anxious  bard.'  (ioldsmith 
not  only  enjoyed  praise  but  knew 
how  to  distinguish  that  whi(di  wuh 
really  ajjpreciativo ;  and  Jolin.son's 
commendations,  wo  may    he  eurg, 


helped  him  to  bear  tho  public's 
ciildness,  jtcrhajis  even  to  make  that 
odd-souncling  acknowledgment  in 
the  Preface,  that  'upon  the  whole, 
the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  tho 
public  for  the  favourable  reception 
which  tile  "  Good-natured  Man  "  haa 
met  with.' 

What  he  could  do  in  comedy  was 
only  fairly  shown  in  '  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,'  produced  five  years  later; 
but  the  '  Good-natured  ]\Ian,' though 
tho  ])lot  is  far  from  ftasible,  and  the 
way  in  which  the  incidents  are  de- 
veloped is  often  quite  absurd,  is  full 
ofcharmingpa.^.'-age.s,  and  surcharged 
with  buoyant  humour.  The  author 
Seems  to  be  bubbling  over  with  that 
kindly  wit,  that  genial  vivacity  and 
native  tenderness  and  delicacy 
which  are  the  perennial  charm  of  his 
Vicar,  but  which  were  an  utter 
novelty  in  the  comeilies  of  his  time, 
or  even  in  tho.so  which  he  had  taken 
as  his  model. 

The  scene  which  I\Ir.  Frith  has 
represented  is  laid  in  Honey  wood's 
house.  Tho  heedless  young  spend- 
thrift has  l)cen  arrested  for  debt,  and 
^liss  Kicliland,  who  is  ardently 
attached  to  him,  having  lieard  a 
rumour  of  tho  misadventure,  deter- 
mines to  call  upon  him,  avowedly 
to  thank  liim  for  'choosing her  little 
library,'  but  really  to  ascertain 
wliether  the  report  is  true— she 
having,  however,  first  directed  her 
lawyer  to  )  ay  his  debts.  Honey- 
wood  in  his  perjdexity.as  the  bailiffs 
will  not,  of  cour.se,  sutfer  him  out  of 
their  sight,  determines  to  introduce 
them  to  the  lady  as  his  friends.  Ho 
lias  already  bribed  them  to  be  on 
their  best  behaviour  '  in  ca^o  com- 
l)any  comes,'  and  ho  now  directs  his 
servant  to  detain  Miss  Richland  for 
a  moment  whilst  tho  worst  clad  of 
tho  two  dons  his  blue  and  gold  suit, 
'  the  first  that  conies  to  hand.' 

Probiibly.at  the  first  glance,  most 
who  look  at  the  pi<'ture  with  at  all  a 
critical  eye,  fancy  that  .Mr.  Frith  has 
exaggerated  tho  vulgar  ol)sequiou-i- 
ness  of  Olio  and  the  coaiver  brutality 
of  the  other  bailiff.  Put  exngge- 
ration  and  coarseness  are  not  faults 
into  which  ISIr.  Frith  is  often  (if 
ever)  Initrayed;  and  a  cursory  ex- 
amination of  tho  play  will  show 
that  ho  has  not  so  crreti  hero.     Tho 


Artists^  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures. 


249 


bailiffs  are  thorongli  jail-birds— cari- 
catures of  tlie  class  we  shoiUd  have 
supposed  tliem  to  bo  had  any  one 
else  so  represented  them  ;  but  Gold- 
smith unhiekily  know  tho  sort  of 
men  only  too  well,  and  ho  has 
evidently  drawn  them  carefully,  and 
was  rather  proud  than  otherwise  of 
the  portraiture.  His  compatriots 
indeed  judged  otherwise.  On  the  first 
night,  the  l)ailiff  scene  nearly  proved 
fatal  to  the  piece.  Afterwards,  as  the 
author  tells  us,  'in  deference  to  the 
public  taste,  grown  of  late,  perhaps, 
too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs 
was  retrenched  in  the  representation.' 
He,  however,  thought  too  well  of  it 
to  let  it  be  lost ;  and  so  when  he 
printed  the  play,  for  his  own  satis- 
faction, and  '  in  deference  also  to  the 
judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who 
think  in  a  particular  way,'  the  scene 
was  restored.  '  The  author,'  he  con- 
tinues, '  submits  it  to  the  reader  in 
his  closet ;  and  hopes  that  too  much 
refinement  will  not  banish  humour 
and  character  from  ours,  as  it  has 
already  done  from  the  French 
theatre.'  The  reader  in  his  closet 
will  certainly  thank  him  for  having 
restored  a  scene  so  essential  to  the 
development  of  the  story,  and  which 
undoubtedly  contains  both  humour 
and  character  in  a  marked  degree, 
whilst  all  who  see  this  picture  may 
thank  him  for  an  additional  pleasure, 
however  unintended  or  unanticipated 
by  the  author. 

As  the  '  Good-natured  Man '  is  es- 
sentially a  comedy  of  humour  and 
character,  Mr.  Frith  must  be  held  to 
have  succeeded  or  failed— apart  from 
and  antecedently  to  his  technical 
failure  or  success— in  proportion  as 
he  has  appreciated  the  subtler 
humour  of  the  scene  and  delineated 
the  character  of  the  actors  in  it :  by 
no  means  an  easy  task  for  a  painter. 
Thechiefpersonagesare  Honey  wood, 
Miss  Richland,  and  the  bailiffs;  let 
us  look  at  them  in  succession. 

Honeywood,  the  Good-natured 
Manofthecomedy.isanopen-hearted, 
generous  young  fellow — '  immensely 
good-natured,'  as  Lofty  sneeringly 
remarks— with  '  that  easiness  of  dis- 
position which,  though  inclined  to  be 
right,  had  not  courage  to  condemn 
the  wrong ;'  who,  consequently,  was 
ea^ily  led  into  debt  and  difficulty, 


and  whose  errors  were  the  '  errors  of 
a  mind  that  only  sought  ajjplauso 
from  others.'  'Splendid  errors,' 
Goldsmith  makes  tho  good  uncle, 
Sir  William  Honeywood, call  them; 
'  splendid  errors,  that  still  took 
name  from  some  neighbouring  duty 
— charity,  that  was  but  injustice; 
benevolence,  that  was  but  weakness, 
and  friendship  but  credulity.'  Gold- 
smith in  drawing  this  amiable,  un- 
selfish, affectionate,  but  too  ductile 
character,  was,  one  cannot  but  feel, 
painting  from  the  life— himself  tho 
sitter.  Only  the  genius  is  wanting 
to  make  the  portrait  complete. 

Miss  Richland  appears  in  the  play 
only  when  her  i)resence  is  absolutely 
required.  She  is  the  favourite  of 
every  one,  including  the  author. 
'  The  most  lovely  woman  that  ever 
warmed  the  human  heart;'  and 
Goldsmith  has  done  his  best  to 
credit  her  with  intellect  as  well  as 
beauty.  Even  her  maid.  Garnet — 
herself  an  eminently  shrewd  body — 
wondered  how  '  so  innocent  a  face 
could  cover  so  much  cuteness.' 

The  bailiff',  Timothy  Twitch,  is  a 
coarse,  rough-speaking  fellow,  who, 
rating  his  rude  insolence  as  wit, 
holds  that  '  a  joke  breaks  no  bones, 
as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  tho 
law ;'  and,  after  his  insolence,  cring- 
ing for  a  bribe,  declares, '  I  am  sure 
no  man  can  say  I  ever  gave  a  gentle- 
man, that  was  a  gentleman,  ill  usage. 
If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a 
gentleman,  I  have  taken  money  not 
to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together.' 
His  follower,  litile  Flanigan,  '  has  a 
good  face,  a  very  good  face ;  but 
then  he  is  a  little  seedy,'  and  so  is 
put  into  the  blue  and  gold  suit. 
But  his  face  is  not  his  only  recom- 
mendation. *  There's  not  a  prettier 
scout  in  the  four  counties  after  a  shy 
cock  than  he.  Scents  like  a  hound ; 
sticks  like  a  weasel.'  Both  are  alike 
vulgar,  of  the  pot-house  type  of 
vulgarity.  One  would  say  they  were 
not  quite  the  men  for  their  vocation  ; 
not  active  enough,  nor  sly,  nor  sleek 
enough ;  but,  as  was  said  before. 
Goldsmith  had  been  himself  in  the 
hands  of  bailiffs,  and  knew  the 
trilie. 

These  are  the  personages  as  Gold- 
smith describes  them:  now  let  us 
turn  to  the  picture,  and  see  how 


2.'0 


Artitita'  ^'iirsfrom  Chi  ice  Pirlui'S. 


Frith  has  painted  them.  Tlicy  nro 
arriiiifreii,  as  will  Ih)  scon,  in  two 
distinct  groups:  the  haililTs  on  the 
right,  Hone}  wood  and  Miss  Rich- 
laud,  with  her  maid,  on  the  left;  a 
sort  of  natural  rcjtulsion  keeping 
tbem  well  apart— one  of  those  iu- 
stiuctivo  proprieties  that  frei]uently 
escape  notice,  hut  always  njark  the 
true  artist.  But  not  only  are  tho 
groups  thus  ojiposcd  hy  tiieir  i)iaces 
in  the  jncture,  the  contrast  of  relhie- 
ment  with  vultiarity  is  equally 
brought  out  l>y  the  quiet,  well-hrcd 
ease  of  one  set  of  i)ersons  as  com- 
pared Witli  the  esagKerated  attitudes 
of  the  others  in  their  awkward  at- 
tempts to  appear  genteel.  Aud 
here,  in  this  first  broad  general 
view,  may  be  observed  tlio  concord 
of  the  attitude  of  each,  the  position 
of  the  limbs  .and  tho  movement  of 
tho  hands,  with  the  expression  of 
their  respective  countenances  ;  and 
along  with  t!iis  the  simplicity  aud 
naturalness  of  the  individual  pose, 
and  of  the  arrangement  of  tho 
whole. 

The  central  figure  of  tho  compo- 
sition is  the  Good  -  natured  Idan. 
Honeywood  is  a  tall,  slim  young 
fellow,  very  gentlemanly,  verygooil- 
looking,  evidently  amiable,  and,  like 
the  origii  nl,  rather  insij)id.  Though 
in  a  morning  habit,  he  is  faultlessly 
attired  according  to  tho  fashion  of 
the  middle  of  tho  Ia.st  century. 
Over  an  eudiroidered  silver-coloured 
silk  waistcoat,  with  long  flap-pock- 
ets, brown  velvet  breeches,  and  silk 
stockings,  he  has  thrown  negligently 
a  long  yellow  drcf-sing-gown,  so  as 
to  show  tlie  blue  lining.  His  right 
hand  holds  lightly  the  tips  of  his 
vieitor's  fingers,  as,  with  assumed 
nonchalani^e,  ho  introduces  to  her 
'two  of  my  very  gmid  friends,  Mr. 
Twitch  and  ]\Ir.  Flanigan.' 

Tho  expn  s>ion  of  .Miss  Richland's 
face,  at  fir.^t  lialf-jiuzzled  but  now 
gliding  into  certainty,  as  sho  looks 
towards  these  uncouth  specimens  of 
huujanity,  is  very  happily  rendered. 
You  can  see,  and  t(jlIow  step  by 
step,  her  <isi'fr,  ns  jdainly  as  though 
you  heard  it — '  Who  can  tlicso  o<ld- 
looking  men  be?  I  fear  it  is  n.s  I 
Was  informed.  It  must  Iw  to.'  But 
Miss  Richland  is  altogether  one  of 
Mr.  Frith  b  l.ui  picbt  efforts.    She  is 


landing  in  a  gracious  but  formal 
courtesy— an  attitude  tliat  i-eldom 
appears  graceful  in  a  i)ieture,  and 
hero  she  is  evidently  constrained  by 
involuntary  repugnance  of  the  -men 
to  whom  she  is  paying  tliis  outward 
tribute  of  respect— yet  there  is  no 
question  possible  respecting  her 
ease  and  breeding.  As  (Joldsmith 
.says  of  Mdllo.  Clarion,  '  Her  first 
appearance  is  excessively  engaging.' 
And  her  elegance  is  not  merely 
superficial.  Sho  has  the  perfect 
ease  and  polish  of  good  society, 
but  there  is  the  charm  of  frankness 
aud  iiuiate  kindliness.  Lovely  as  is 
her  lace,  it  is  bettered  by  tho  sweet- 
ness, tenderness,  and  intelligence 
that  irradiate  it. 

It  is  not  till  you  have  well  studied 
her  face  that  you  observe  how  be- 
comingly and  unobtrusively  sho  is 
attired,  and  how  skillully  the  artist 
has  noted  the  rich  dress  and  ptcu- 
liar  fashion  of  tlie  time — how  free, 
in  a  Word,  from  all  awkwardness 
and  ostentation  tho  costume  sits. 
For  tho  benefit  of  our  fair  readers 
who  may  not  have  immediate  ac- 
cess to  tho  ori;:inal  painting,  we 
will  make  a  brief  note  of  Miss  Rich- 
land's attire,  not  very  accurate,  per- 
haps, for  we  are  utterly  ignorant  in 
mercery,  but  sufhcient  to  supple- 
ment tho  engraving.  It  is,  it  will 
be  rememl)ered,  tho  morning  walk- 
ing dress  of  the  days  when  George 
tho  Third  was  young,  or  a  little 
earlier;  the  days  when 

'Oft  In  Orcims  invcniiim  llioy'J  bestow 
To  chaiiK.;  a  lluiince,  or  ad  1  a  furb  low.' 

The  flounced  and  furbelowed  petti- 
coat— plainly  tho  niaiu  feature,  the 
pith  and  essence  of  tho  dre.ss,  that 
which  serves  as  support  and  motive 
of  all  tho  re.st— is  a  rich,  figured, 
pale  drab  lutestring;  aud  over  it  is 
the  open  skirt,  also  of  a  liglit  silk, 
but  of  a  different  texture  and  more 
creamy  hue.  The  black  iiat  is  lined 
with  crim.son  tjiffety,  which,  with 
the  largo  red  bow  at  her  bosom, 
serves,  as  a  painter  woul  I  say,  to 
clear  and  brighten,  or,  as  wo  might 
phrase  it,  to  set  ofT,  or  give  health 
and  tone  to  her  j)early  complexion. 
Her  lianils  are  gloved,  the  left  rest- 
ing in  Honeywoo  I's,  the  riglit  in  a 
natty  little  figured  sillc  imitT.  A 
bhort  black  cloak  completes  a  very 


Aftisfs'  Notes  ffi 'in  Choice  Pictures. 


251 


pretty  and  ladylike  costume.  And 
the  ladylike  character  of  her  beauty, 
dress,  and  bcarinp;  is  rendered  the 
more  obvious  by  tlie  coutignity  of 
the  plebeian  good  looks  and  plainer 
habit  of  her  maid.  Garnet,  standing 
immediately  behind  her. 

With  eijual  distinctness,  though 
with  more  appearance  of  effort,  is 
the  vulgarity  of  the  opposite  group 
brought  out.  Twitch,  the  principal 
bailiff,  a  churlish,  broad-shouldered 
fellow,  not  having  had  time  to  don 
a  suit  of  Honeywood's,  is  accoutred 
in  his  own  rough  brown  horseman's 
coat,  long  red  waistcoat,  velveteen 
shorts,  and  dirty  top-boots,  his 
thoroughly  blackguard  costume 
being  completed  by  a  coloured 
belcher  twisted  untidily  about  his 
neck,  and  a  curled  coachman's  wig. 
A  glance  is  enough  to  account  for 
Miss  Richland's  dislike;  but  it  needs 
a  perusal  of  the  play  to  be  satisfied 
that  the  make-up  is  not  overdone. 
In  little  Flanigau's  genuine  Hiber- 
nian face,  red  shock  hair,  ami  ob- 
sequious bow,  we  have  the  low  Irish 
runner  exactly  hit  off.  Mr.  Frith 
has  put  a  brass-headed  constable's 
staff  in  the  hand  behind  his  back, 
seemingly  to  indicate  more  clearly 
his  office ;  but  for  this  purpose  it 
was  hardly  necessary,  and  for  any 
other  it  was  not  wanted.  Flanigan 
would  scarcely  have  taken  out  his 
emblem  of  authority  in  such  a 
presence,  at  least  after  what  had 
occurred  between  him  and  Honey- 
wood.  To  us  it  seems  the  one  mis- 
take in  the  composition,  and  Mr. 
Frith,  if  ho  were  to  repeat  the  pic- 
ture, which  he  is  not  likely  to  do, 
would,  we  have  little  doubt,  omit 
it. 

The  two  groups  are,  as  was  said, 
entirely  distinct  and  strongly  con- 
trasted. But  observe  how  cleverly 
Mr.  Frith  has,  by  a  simple  little  in- 
cident, connected  them,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  enforced  the  contrast 
between  them.  In  taking  Honey- 
wood's  hand  Miss  Richland  has  let 
slip  from  hers  the  ribbon  by  which 
she  held  her  spaniel,  and  he  has 
run  forward,  and  is  now  looking  up 
and  sniffing  suspiciously  at  the  bail- 
iffs, marking,  as  significantly  as  dog 
can,  his  scorn  of '  the  vulgar  rogues.' 
And  observe,  on  the  other  hand,  how 


skilfully  the  principal  group  is,  to 
speak  technic  dly,  carried  out  of  the 
jMcture  l)y  Honeywood's  servant 
standing  with  the  half-open  door  in 
his  hand,  watching  furtively  the 
curious  rencontre  ;  hinting  by  his 
sly  looks  at  what  has  gone  before, 
and  indicating  the  out-of-the-way 
character  of  the  scene.  And  fur- 
ther, whilst  noticing  this  little  evi- 
dence of  artistic  completeness,  we 
may  be  pardoned  for  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  marks  of  study  in  the 
introduction  of  the  various  accesso- 
ries, their  propriety,  careful  execu- 
tion, and  yet  entire  subordination. 
Apart  from  the  conception  of  cha- 
racter and  dramatic  power,  the 
composition  and  execution  of  the 
picture  would  attest  it  the  work  of 
a  consummate  artist. 

The  'Catalogue  of  the  Sheep- 
shanks Collection,'  to  which  this 
picture  belongs,  says  of  Mr.  Frith 
(with  some  unneces.cary  dislocation 
of  grammar), '  The  thoroughly  Eng- 
lisn  character  of  his  subjects  have 
made  his  works  great  favourites  with 
the  public'  There  can  bo  no  doubt 
that  the  English  character  of  his 
works  has  done  much  towards  in- 
suring their  popularity.  But  he  is 
so  great  a  favourite  in  reality  be- 
cause he  represents  familiar  scenes 
and  agreeable  subjects  not  only  with 
scrupulous  accuracy,  bat  with  ex- 
quisite tact  and  refinement— quali- 
ties rarely  found  in  previous  painters 
of  similar  scenes — thus  lifting  them 
out  of  the  category  of  mere  common- 
place imitation,  and  breaking  tlio 
chain  of  traditional  treatment.  He 
thus,  while  in  his  earlier  works 
taking  a  position  between  Leslie  and 
Mulready,  vindicated  his  claim  to 
originality  of  conception  and  treat- 
ment, and  originality  is  what  the 
public  seldom  fails  to  recognize. 

The  secret  of  his  originality,  we 
suspect,  lies  in  his  having  had  the 
good  fortune  or  courage  to  select  a 
class  of  subjects  exactly  correspond- 
ing to  his  personal  tastes,  and 
working  them  out  in  his  own  way. 
And  this  seems  the  more  likt  ly 
from  his  inferior  success  in  sutijec  s 
chosen  for  him,  and  when  working 
under  enforced  conditious.  Take, 
for  example,  his  '  Claude  Duval,'  f  r 
even  '  The  Railway  Station.'   Evtiy 


252 


Skeiehes  of  the  Evglinh  Bench  and  Bar. 


lino  nnd  tonch  cxliibits  Iho  con- 
scitntious  lalnmr  Instowcd  upon 
thcin,  but  ov(  ry  lino  is  equally  wuut- 
iug  in  f-pontamity. 

Rut  wi'  Tiiust  not  part  from  tlic 
picture  iK'fnrc  us  without  reninrking 
liow  well  it  illustrates  Mr.  Frith's 
anxiety  to  make  even  the  simplest 
subject  as  jierfect  as  po«sil)le.  Tho 
more  caret'ully  it  is  exanu'ned,  the 
more  clearly  will  it  bo  Fcen  that 
every  part  has  been  deliberately 
studied,    probably   before  a  touch 


was  piven  to  tho  actual  pnintinp, 
and  that  it  was  then  patiently 
wronpht  out,  with  a  continuous  re- 
gard to  each  part,  ami  to  tho  effect 
of  the  whole.  As  it  now  appears, 
the  seeming  oa?o  witli  wliich  it  has 
been  executed  might  lead  an  in- 
cautious ob.server  to  underrate  tho 
labour  bestowed  upon  it.  Undoubt- 
edly it  was  painted  with  comparative 
facility,  but  such  facihty  could  only 
liavo  resulted  from  long  years  of 
intelligent  practice. 


SKETCHES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  BENCH  AND  BAR. 


TTI. 
rijc  late  Horti  Cfjirf  JJarnii. 


SIR  FiiEiEincK  Pollock,  it  was 
well  said  some  ten  years  ago, 
is  a  'wonderful  and  venerable 
man;'  and,  of  course,  he  is  now 
even  still  more  wonderful  and 
venerable.  There  is  no  one  living 
who,  at  his  great  age,  and  after  a 
life  of  such  uncuising  exertion, 
retains  such  wonderful  vivacity 
and  vigoiir.  His  countenance, 
which  reminds  one  of  that  of  an 
old  lion,  bears  tho  impress  of 
intellect,  energy,  and  thought.  It 
is  the  countenance  of  one  gifted 
(,  with  a  great  intellect,  which  has 
been  highly  educated  and  nobly 
exercised.  It  is  the  head  of  a 
man  who  was  a  senior  wrangler 
some  half  a  century  ago,  and  who, 
after  some  thirty  years  of  forensic 
struggles  and  forensic  triumphs, 
and  twenty  years  of  judicial 
labours,  finds  his  recreation  in  tho 
most  alistrnsc  mathematics,  and 
at  the  same  time  is  playful  and 
plea.sint  as  a  child.  There  is  tho 
great  secret  of  the  Lord  Chi(;f 
Jiaron's  vivacity  and  vigour.  Ho 
has  always  been  in  heart  and  spirit 
a  lioy.  When  a  \x)y,  lie  must  havo 
been  of  a  noblo  and  manly  character, 
and  when  ho  is  an  old  man,  his 
heart  retains  tho  freshnc-s  of  a 
l>oy'8.  He  is  ono  of  tho.-c  of  whom 
our  great  poet  to  lx;autifully  sjiciiks, 
who  in  their  youth  were  teniyerato 
eoid  abstinent — 


'  Therefore  his  npe  Is  as  a  lusty  winter. 
Frosty  but  kindly.' 

There  is  no  one  upon  the  Bench 
— we  lament  that  he  is  there  no 
longer— who  better  deserves  a  place 
in  these  pages  than  the  lafe  Lord 
Chief  Baron,  lK)th  becaut^o  of  his 
amazing  vigour  of  mind,  and  his 
marked  and  remarkable  cliaraeter, 
and  also  on  account  of  tho  interest 
ho  takes  in  matters  of  literature, 
science,  and  art.  W'o  believe  there 
is  not  a  single  judge  whose  mind 
takes  such  a  wide  range,  and  at  tho 
pame  time  penetrates  so  deeply  into 
science.  He  tak<  s  a  deep  interest  in 
every  branch  of  science  or  of  art ; 
is  President  of  tho  Photographic 
Institution,  and  not  long  sincti  jirc- 
sided  at  one  of  their  assemblies; 
and  are  they  not  proud  of  the 
venerable  okl  man  ? 

Tho  jirevailing  characteristic  of 
tho  Lord  Chief  I'aron's countenance 
is  one  of  solemn  dignity — one  might 
almost  say  majesty.  There  is  no 
jndgo  on  tho  Bench— nor  hius  there 
ever  be(;n  within  living  memory — 
onu  who  equalled  or  even  resembled 
hiia  in  thi.s.  Any  oin'  who  looks  at 
his  photograph  or  i)nrtiait  must  bo 
struck  with  it.  There  is  something 
in  it  wonderfully  exjiressivo  of  intel- 
lect, energy,  and  dignity.  Theie  is 
a  combination  of  these  attributes 
to  1)0  observed  reflected  in  it,  to  be 
Iooke<l  for  in  vnin  in  any  other  ju» 


SIR    FREDERICK    POLLOCK. 


1 


Slctlches  of  the  English  Bench  uvd  Bar. 


253 


(licial  personage.  In  repose,  the 
expression  is  one  of  mild,  calm,  in- 
tellectual dignity,  with  an  immen- 
sity of  latent  energy ;  and  when 
that  energy  is  raised,  the  aspect  of 
the  countenance  is  majestic. 

He  certainly  was  a  wonderful 
man,  that  old  Chief  Baron.  His 
intellect  was  perfect,  thougli  his 
bodily  strength  was  weak.  For  a  fuw 
hours  in  a  day  he  could  still  apply 
the  mighty  power  of  his  mind  to 
legal  labours,  and  the  vast  aid  they 
derived  from  practice  and  experience 
would  for  a  time  more  than  counter- 
balance his  physical  weakness.  He 
was  wealf,  however,  and  could  not 
do  much  work  at  a  time,  and  a  long 
hard  day's  Avork  was  too  much  for 
him.  While  his  strength  lasted, 
however,  his  vigour  and  vivacity 
were  wonderful  at  his  age.  His 
utterance  and  mode  of  speaking 
were  always  exceedingly  energetic 
and  empbatic,and  there  was  a  cerrain 
measured,  stately  tone  of  delivery 
which  wonderfully  enhanced  its 
dignity.  While  at  the  bar,  his 
oratory  was  remarkable  for  dignity ; 
and  there  was  no  advocate  who 
assumed  so  lofty  a  tone,  and  gave 
one  so  much  the  idea  of  Eoman 
dignity.  This  tone  and  manner, 
of  course,  were  well  suited  to  the 
Bench,  and  while  Sir  Frederick 
■  sat  in  the  Exchequer  he  carried 
himself  with  as  lofty  a  dignity  as 
any  one  in  living  memory.  He  was 
good-natured  and  genial  withal;  but 
his  countenance  and  manner  were 
always  remarkable  for  a  certain 
solemnity  and  dignity,  which  were 
his  chief  characteristics,  and  in 
which  no  judge  on  the  Bench 
equalled  him.  Having  so  enlarged 
and  cultivated  a  mind,  he  had  great 
variety  of  ideas,  and  clothed  them 
with  a  happy  felicity  of  language ; 
and  all  this,  united  with  his  dignity 
of  delivery  made  him  a  most  effec- 
tive and  emphatic  speaker.  His 
annual  addresses  to  the  Lord  Mayor 
in  the  Court  of  Exchequer  were  mas- 
terpieces of  that  species  of  eloquence 
in  which  very  few  men  excel.  Pro- 
bably there  is  not  a  man  on  the 
Bench  who  could  have  delivered 
them.  Tbere  was,  however,  about 
the  Lord  Chief  Baron,  at  times,  an 
overbearing  vehemence  ot  tone  and 


energy  of  language  perfectly 
astounding  in  so  old  a  man ;  and 
if  it  were  not  that  ho  was  so  very 
old  and  venerated,  it  would  not  bo 
tolerated.  Ho  Avas,  however,  re- 
garded with  veneration,  not  merely 
as  an  old  man,  but  as  a  very 
wonderful  old  man,  as  he  still  is. 
His  style  of  speaking  upon  the 
Bench  was  sometimes,  perhaps,  too 
discursive:  he  was  fond  of  philo- 
sophic generalities ;  he  digressed,  as 
the  wags  of  the  Bar  would  say, 
'into  all  manner  of  disquisitioiiS 
upon  abstract  moral  questions  ;'  but 
still  his  ideas  were  fine,  and  his 
style  was  grand;  although,  as  his 
manner  was  always  very  solemn 
and  emphatic  and  Johnsonian,  the 
exaggeration  of  it  in  those  moods  of 
his  was  somewhat  amusing.  The 
tine  old  fellow  had  a  nap  pretty 
regularly,  about  the  middle  of  the 
day.  His  waking,  however,  was 
often  exceedingly  comical.  He 
would  start  up,  seize  his  pen,  and 
with  imperturbable  gravity  say  to 
the  counsel  who  was  arguing, 
'  What  page  did  you  cite  ?'  as 
though  he  had  been  following  him 
closely  through  all  his  citations. 
For  the  most  part  he  left  the  ordinary 
work  of  his  court  to  his  puisnes, 
who  were  very  fond  of  their  chief, 
and  were  very  glad  to  do  his  work 
for  him  as  far  as  they  could ;  and 
if  the  Bar  were  dissatisfied,  they 
bore  it,  from  admiration  and  venera- 
tion for  him,  and  a  melancholy  feel- 
ing that,  with  all  his  fixults  and 
failings,  he  would  leave  a  sad  gap 
in  Westminster  Hall,  and  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  replace  his  vast 
power,  his  majestic  dignity,  and  the 
matured  wisdom  of  his  long  ex- 
perience. 

This,  indeed,  was  what  the  old 
man  said  himself,  when  they  pressed 
him  to  resign.  '  Find  me,'  he  proudly 
said,  'a  man  whom  Westminster 
Hall  will  deem  my  equal,  old  as 
I  am,  and  I'll  resign  to-morrow.' 
There  the  old  man  was  right.  Wlio 
could  sit  in  his  place  without  pro- 
voking painful  comparisons  ? 

They  tell  a  capital  story  of  the 
Chief  Baron  :  that  one  who  wished 
him  to  resign,  waited  on  him,  and 
hinted  at  it,  and  suggested  it,  for  his 
own  sake,  entirely  with  a  view  to 


254 


Shelches  of  the  Evcjlhh  Bnich  n>i/i  B  ir 


the  prolongation  of  his  valued  life, 
and  so  fortli.  Tim  old  ninn  rose, 
and  suid  with  hi-;  frrini.dry  pravity, 
'Will  you  dancu  with  iiic?'  The 
guest  stood  aj^hast,  as  the  Loni 
Chief  Baron,  who  prides  himself 
particularly  upon  his  leps,  began  to 
caper  about  with  a  certain  youth- 
like vi^aity.  Seeing  his  visitor 
standing  surpris^ed,  ho  capered  up 
to  hiui,  and  said,  'Well,  if  you 
won't  (hmce  with  lue,  will  you  box 
with  nie?'  And  with  that  he 
squared  up  to  him;  and  half  in 
jtst,  and  half  in  earnest,  fairly  boxed 
him  out  of  tho  room.  Tho  old 
Chief  l!;u-on  had  no  more  visitor3 
anxiously  inquiring  after  his  health, 
and  coiu'teously  suggesting  retire- 
ment. 

Even  then,  wlicn  there  was  a  case 
which  has  great  interest,  as  tho 
case  of  the  '  Alexau'lra,'  or  the  ca^e 
of  Mullcr,  he  '  warmed  to  his  work, 
and  did  it,  if  not  well,  at  all  events 
with  a  wondciful  vigour  and  an 
energy  which  at  his  age  was  really 
marvellous.  Memory,  however,  be- 
gan to  play  him  tricks;  ho  was, 
like  all  old  men,  fond  of  relying  on 
it,  and  that  was  a  dangerous  habit  for 
an  old  judge,  for  it  may  fail  him, 
and  had  him  into  sad  mistakes. 

But  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  tho 
vivacity  and  vigour  of  the  old  man's 
mind  ;  and,  though  his  voice  wa'^ 
feeble  with  age,  still  it  retained  its 
measured,  emphatic  utterance,  its 
dignity  of  delivery,  its  impres- 
sive manner,  and  its  .solemn  tone. 

The  pccidiar  characteri-stic  of  the 
Chief  Baron's  featuns  is  a  certain 
Folemn  dignity.  This  aspect  they 
never  lost,  even  when  ho  was  aroused 
to  energy.  IIo  alwajs  spjkc  in 
the  fame  measured  and  emphatic 
manner,  even  when,  as  often  was  tho 
case,  he  laised  tho  tone  of  his  voice, 
in  the  heat  of  argiur.entordi.scns.^ion 
when  he  was  impatient  of  opposition, 
arid  declauned  with  vehemence. 
There  was  no  one  on  thci  Bench  who 
united,  to  snch  a  degree,  dignity  and 
energy.  At  times  his  earnestness  was 
almost  imi)'i.ssionc  I ;  yet  ho  never 
lost  this  dignity  of  manner  and 
emphatic,  dogmatic,  solemnity  of 
tone.  Ho  became,  indeed,  more 
dogmatic  and  dignified  tlr?  more  ho 
wa«op[io  ed,  and  prop  lUii' led  propo 


sitions  as  if  he  wero  pronouncing 
sentt  nee.  When  his  mind  was  fanly 
engaged  in  argument,  no  one  can 
liave  on  idea  of  his  vehenienco 
and  vigour ;  and  ho  was  a  match, 
in  these  moods,  for  tho  whole 
Bar  put  together.  He  was  like  au 
old  lion  at  bay,  and  woe  to  any 
•one  who  came  near  him.  IFc  would 
lay  in  tho  du-t  all  who  dared  to 
oppose  him,  and  then  foM  his 
arms,  lean  back  on  his  seat,  and 
look  eahnly  and  proudly  down 
upon  them,  apjiearing  at  such 
moments  what  he  undoubtedly  was  ' 
— a  wonderful  and  venerable  man. 

The  Lord  Chief  Baron  was  prone 
to  tho  expression  of  strong  general 
views,  which  he  conveyed  in  a  man- 
ner emincnently  eharacteristio,  with 
an  idiomatic  vigour  and  originality 
almost  amusing.     'If,'  said  he,  on 
one  occasion — '  if  every  man  were  to 
take  advantage  of  every  occasion  to 
have  "tho  I'nv"  of  his  neighbour, 
life  would  not  be  long  cnomjli  for  the 
litigation  which  would  result.    All 
Jlis/i  rind  hlcod  u'oxld  be  turned  into 
pldlntiffs     and     dr/cndnnfs!'       The 
reader  must  imagine  this  uttered  in 
a  slow,  distinct,  deliberate,  .solemn 
voice,  with  considerable  energy,  and 
a  raising  of  the  tone  at  the  words  in 
italics.     This  may  serve  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  Lord  Chief  Baron's  style. 
It  is  full  of  the  emphatic  utterances 
of    gcneial     principles,    or    broad 
moral  sentiments,  which  ho  some- 
time; makes  the  basis  of  his  legal 
vit'ws  ;  whence  it  is  tliat  they  were 
often   uncommonly   loose   and   un- 
satisfactory ;  and,  though  .sometimes 
tho  utterances  of  tho  old  man  had 
a  breaith  of  view,  and  elevation  of 
idci  which,  united  wiih  great  dignity 
and    energy  of   exi)re."-sion,    made 
them  ( loqnent,    they    often    broke 
away  from  tlie  boimds  of  law,  and 
havo  even  afforded  amplo  food  lor 
wnggery. 

I'he  Lord  Chief  Baron  was  so  apt 
to  take  broad  bo'd  views,  and  to 
act  upon  them  boldly  and  abruptly, 
by  directing  a  nonsuit,  or  verdict 
for  the  dcfindnnt,  that  'Pollock's 
nonsuits'  p'lsscd  into  a  byword; 
and  a  distinguished  advocate  now 
on  tho  Bench  has  bcen^  heard  to 
pay,  '  Oh.  it  was  one  of  the  Chief 
i'arou's  nonsuits !'    Not  long  a.i'0, 


I 


Sh  ''ches  oj  tin;  EogUHlt  /Inirli  (nid  Bar. 


255 


fn  n  ca^o  of  some  raapnitnde,  in 
w!iit:li  a  host  of  eminent  men  were 
engaged  on  either  side,  ho  took 
upon  himself  suddenly  to  direct 
a  nonsuit,  alwoJutely  astounding 
every  ono  on  both  sides ;  tliere 
being  evidence  both  ways,  and  a 
strong  case  for  the  jnry.  The  non- 
suit was,  of  course,  set  aside,  though 
it  was  in  his  own  coiu*t ;  ho  himself 
could  scarcely  attempt  to  uphold  it. 
There  is  not  a  siui^le  judge  but 
himself  who  would  have  venturerl 
\ipon  that  nonsuit;  nor  has  thero 
been  one  within  living  memory  who 
would  have  dared  to  do  it.  The 
old  Chief  B;iron  had  lieen  always 
characterised  by  a  high  tone  of 
lofty  audacity  ;  and  he  had  not  yet 
lost  that  trait.  Age,  with  him,  had 
certainly  not  brought  timidity ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  f-eemed  to  have 
brought  greater  boldness :  the  auda- 
city had  augmented  with  bis  years. 
Such  a  nonsuit  as  that,  at  an  age  of 
nearly  eigiity,  was  probably  without 
parallel  in  legal  memory. 

Sir  Frederick  has  a  fondness,  not 
only  for  science  and  literature,  but 
lor  art;  and  several  arts  he  prac- 
tises himself— photography,  for  in- 
stance. He  possesses  also  a  won- 
derful skill  in  caligraphy,  which  he 
is  fond  of  turning  to  purposes  of 
amusement.  Pie  practises  all  sorts 
of  innocent  deceptions  upon  his 
friends,  being  able  to  imitate  any 
handwriting  perfectly.  He  once 
wrote  a  most  absurd  opinion,  in  the 
name  of  a  learned  friend  of  bis  at 
the  Bar,  and  sent  it  to  him,  per- 
plexing him  most  painfully  by  its 
app  irent  genuineness  and  its  mon- 
strous absurdity.  There  was  the 
signature-  or  what  seemed  to  be  so 
-and  the  handwriting  ;  apparently 
beyond  all  rioubt :  but  the  matter — 
it  was  downright,  stark  nonsense. 
The  poor  barristf^r  could  not  make 
it  out,  until,  all  of  a  sudden,  he 
remembered  the  Chief  Baron's  skill 
in  caligraphy,  and  was  consoled, 
and  at  the  same  time  amazed  and 
amused  beyond  measure  at  his  illus- 
trious friend's  succc-s.  On  anotlier 
occasion,  it  is  saiil,  the  Chief  Baron 
forged  the  signature  of  a  friend  of 
his— an  eminent  dramatic  author — 
to  an  'order'  tor  admission  to  a 
theatre— having  already  got  a  genu- 


ine ono,  "and  desirous  of  seeing 
whether  he  could  counterfeit  it. 
Ho  did  so,  and  substituted  the 
forged  one  for  the  genuine  one ; 
and  it  was  so  perfect  a  counterfeit 
tliat  it  was  pa-.>-ed  as  readily  as 
the  genuine  one  would  have  been, 
which  the  Chief  Baron  retained,  to 
show  to  his  liierary  friend,  and 
triumph  over  him  in  his  cali- 
graphieal  skill.  His  friend  said, 
'  Why,  my  Lord  Chief  Baron,  you 
would  have  made  ^Jirst-ntt'  forc/cr !' 
'  Shouldn't  I  ?'  said  the  Chief  Baron ; 
'I  should  have  beaten  Fauntleroy 
out  and  out,  and  even  surpassed  the 
illustrious  Patch.'* 

The  Lord  Chief  Baron  was  proud, 
as  well  he  might  be,  of  his  age,— or 
rather,  of  his  perfect  possession  of 
his  mental  powers,  and  his  fitness 
for  judicial  duties  at  such  an  age. 
'  I  am'  (he  is  fond  of  saying;  'the 
olde-t  judge  wlio  has  ever  been 
known  to  sit  on  the  Engli^-h  Bench. 
1  am  eighty-two.  Lord  Mansfield 
never,  I  believe,  sat  after  he  was 
eighty.'  There  sire  stronger  in- 
stances on  the  Irish  Bench,  wo 
believe^;  but  then  the  work  of  an 
Irii^h  Chief  is  nothing  to  that  of  an 
English  Chief:  and  iv*  one  ever 
dreamt  that  the  Lord  Chief  Baron 
was  not  perfectly  able  to  discharge 
his  judicial  duties  with  efliciency, 
so  far  as  mental  povrer  went. 

The  Lord  C'lief  Baron  was  proud, 
as  well  ho  might  be,  of  his  family, 
and  his  descendants.  Being  lately 
asked  if  he  had  yet  attained  the 
dignity  of  a  grtat-grand father,  he 
answered,  proudly,  '  Yes,  indeed  ;  I 
have  five  sreat-grandchildren.'  He 
added,  '  The  total  number  of  my 
descendants  is  sixty-five.'  What  a 
patriarchal  dignity  and  happiness 
the  old  judge  had  attained  unto !  He 
had  indeed,  in  the  language  of  Scrip- 
ture, lived  to  see  his  children's 
children,  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  At  the  last  assizes  at 
Kingston — the  last  at  which  he 
ever  sat— one  or  two  of  his  grand- 
children, some  fine  young  girls,  the 
daughters  of  one  of  his  sons,  were 
sitting  beside  him  on  the  Bench: 

*  The  m;in  who  in  the  last  century  kept 
up  for  a  series  of  years  the  most  astouiidino; 
system  of  I'oi  gery  on  the  Bank,  as  narrated 
in  •  All  tlie  Year  Roiiiid.' 


256 


Sktichcs  of  the  Enjlmh  Bench  and  I>nr. 


nnil  it  wns  pkasniit  to  fpc  how  l)e- 
nign'y  tlie  old  man  looked  ii]inn 
thtMii  from  time  to  time,  :uid  liow 
tbeir  fair  vomit:  clioeks  Hushed  witli 
happy  pride  as  ho  smiled,  niul 
said  a  few  playful  words  to  lliem; 
and  liow  delij^lited,  and  with  what 
affectionate  ventnition  his  pon — 
theii  fat  hot  —  looked  upon  them. 
Altogetiier,  it  was  n  fine  family 
picture  ;  and  ono  could  not  fail  to 
see  that  aM  that  domestic  happiness 
can  bring  a  man  in  his  old  age  had 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  the  Lord  Chief 
Baron,  and  that  he  was  loved  and 
honoured  by  his  children  and  his 
chililrcn's  children. 

Sir  Frederick  is  just  the  sort 
of  old  man  that  young  people  arc 
so  fond  of.  Grave,  yet  playful ;  with 
a  quiet,  gentle  gravity,  as  of  a  great 
intellect  taking  its  last  calm  look  on 
life,  and  looking  at  all  around  it 
with  a  loving  spirit,  blended  with 
natural  playfuhuss,  ever  breaking 
out  in  n;any  a  graceful  pleasantry; 
a  calm  and  cheirful  temperament, 
as  of  a  man  who  has  made  the  most 
of  life,  and  spent  it  wisely,  and  feels 
it  now  drawing  towards  a  close, 
desires  to  bo  at  peace  with  all,  and 
with  thankfulness  and  cheerfulness 
to  yield  it  up  when  called  upon. 

Sir  Frederick  is  a  man  whoso 
juvenile  energy,  vitality,  and  viva- 
city are  ptrfectly  inexhaustible. 
Tiicre  was  a  story  current  not  long 
ago,  that  ho  had  actually,  at  liis 
venerable  age,  taken  a  fancy  ioharn 
(le.rvian ! — and  in  order  that  he 
might  T'O'I  German  irorlcs]  Any  ono 
who  lias  the  most  distant  id(a  of  the 
difficulty  of  learning  the  German 
language— especially  at  such  an 
advanced  age— and  of  the  depth 
and  extent  of  fnrman  literature, 
will  be  at  once  ama/eil  and  amused 
at  the  idea  of  a  judge,  at  tho 
ago  of  eighty-two,  proposing  to 
Icam  tliat  language,  with  the;  object 
of  reading  that  literature.  What  a 
thorough  confiilencc  in  his  own 
Titality ;  what  a  con.cc'ousness  of 
his  own  unwaning  energies  and 
unwavering  powers  this  shows! 
^Ve  do  not  know  how  far  the  fact 
is  literally  true ;  but  wo  heard  it 
a«  currently  reporte<l  nmong  the 
Bar,  acd  wo  liavo  reason  to  be- 
Liove  it  to  be  true:  and  oven  if  it 


bo  not  literally  correct,  wo  are  sure 
that  then)  was  some  foundation  for 
it;  and  the  very  currency  of  such  a 
story  shows  the  sense  universally 
entertained  of  the  Chief  Baron's 
exliaustless  energies. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  of  the 
three  'chiefs,'  Sir  Frederick  Pollock 
was  by  many  years  the  oldest,  and 
that  he  was  decidedly— on  tho  whole 
— the  youngest,  in  the  elasticity  of 
his  energies,  and  tho  buoyancy — we 
might  say  tho  boyishness— of  his 
spirits.  There  was  just  ten  years'  dif- 
ference in  their  respective  n^es:  Sir 
A.  Cockburn,  62 ;  Sir  W.  Erie,  72  ; 
and  Sir  F.  Pollock,  82 ;  and  though, 
no  doubt.  Sir  W.  Erlo  was  mrtro 
robust,  and  could  stand  a  longer  and 
harder  task  of  judicial  labour,  at  a 
time,  than  either  of  the  others,  yet 
in  point  of  elasticity  and  buoyancy, 
and  unwavering  freshness  of  vigour 
and  vivacity,  tho  Lord  Chief  Baron 
surpassed  the  two  other,  and  far 
younger  Chiefs,  albeit  he  was  full  ten 
years  older  than  one,  and  twenty 
years  older  than  the  other. 

At  length,  however,  the  decline 
of  physical  strength  warned  the  fine 
old  man  that  it  would  be  wiser  and 
better  to  retire,  while  liis  mental 
powers  remained  unimpaired,  and 
fully  able  to  enjoy  tho  repo.so  of  re- 
tirement. Long  may  he  live  to  en- 
joy it ! 

THK  LORD  ClIIKK  D.\RON, 

SIU  FITZPwOY  KLLLY. 

Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly  was,  when  ele- 
vated to  tho  Bench,  tho  father  of 
the  Kngli.sh  Bar;  at  all  events,  there 
was  no  ono  at  the  Bar  of  an  emi- 
nence equal  to  his  in  ago  and 
standing  in  the  profession.  Jfo  wa.s 
contem])orary  with  Erlo  and  Pol- 
lock, and  had  retired  from  ordinary 
practice  about  twenty  years,  alK)ut 
tho  period  tliey  had  Kin  on  the 
]5ench.  His  features  thoroughly  ex- 
press the  chief  trait  of  his  forensic 
character  —  deep,  earnest,  concen- 
trated energy.  There  was  a  won- 
derful compre.s.sed  energy  in  his 
tone  and  manner  of  delivery,  every 
word  weighted  with  deeji  emphasis 
—  in  this  respect  re.'^embling  Erie, 
only  with  more  perfect  elocution. 


SJcetchea  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar, 


257 


LORD  CHIEF  BARON  KELLY. 


VOL.  XI. — NO.  Lxm. 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


259 


It  would  be  impossible  to  look 
upon  the  connienaiicoof  Sii'  Fitzroy 
without  s(cii)^,  even  if  one  had 
never  hoard  atij  thing  of  his  previous 
career,  that  he  was  a  man  of  re- 
markable energy.  Uecp,  condensed, 
concentrated  energy  is  the  predomi- 
nant idea  his  countenance  conveys, 
combined  with  a  kind  of  keen, 
piercing,  suspicious  pcnctrativencss 
of  glance.  There  is  no  intellect,  no 
genius,  no  engaging  air  of  frank- 
ness ;  it  is  tlie  look  of  a  man  of  a 
determined,  iron  energy,  and  a  man 
by  nature  and  character,  keen, 
watchful,  and  wary. 

Sir  Fitzroy  had  great  forensic 
power.  His  only  fault  was  mo- 
notony ;  and  that  had  grown  upon 
him  Avith  years.  ^Vheu  a  younger 
man,  he  had  80  much  warmth  and 
energy  as  to  hide  it ;  but  of  late 
years  it  was  observable,  and  there 
was  a  tautology  and  a  tediousness 
which  gave  a  duhiess  to  his  delivery  ; 
but  still,  under  all  this  dulness  you 
could  see  the  remains  of  a  first- 
rate  forensic  speaker  and  a  for- 
midable ad  vocate ;  and  even  to  the 
last,  when  warmed  by  a  great  cause, 
there  would  break  forth  some  flashes 
of  his  former  eloquence,  showing 
that  'even  in  his  ashes  burn  the 
wonted  fires.' 

Sir  Fitzroy,  however,  had  so  long 
retired  from  ordinary  practice  — 
twenty  years  at  least— that  he  had 
become  half-forgotten  in  Westmin- 
ster Hall ;  and  few  who  Faw  and 
heard  him  on  the  rare  occasions  of 
his  appearance  there  could  remem- 
ber his  forensic  achievements  thirty 
years  ago,  when  FoUett,  and  Pol- 
lock, and  Erie  were  at  the  Bar,  and 
Lyndhurst  sat  where  he  sits  now. 
During  that  long  interval  he  had 
been  more  of  a  politician  than  an 
advocate,  and  he  had  achieved  a  par- 
liamentary position  and  reputation. 
He  had,  however,  acquired  enormous 
experience  at  the  Common  Law  Bar 
before  he  left  it;  he  went  a  good 
deal  into  Chancery,  and  the  House 
of  Lords,  and  the  Queen's  Bench,  in 
great  cases;  his  mind,  of  course, 
was  much  enlarged  by  his  par- 
liamentary career.  He  has  great 
gravity,  and  some  dignity  of  manner : 
he  preserves  the  proper  demeanour 
of  a  judge ;  is  calm,  patient^  pains- 


taking, and  considerate;  and  keeps 
his  Court  well  in  order;  and  as  his 
mental  powers  are  fctill  in  their  full 
vigour,  he  malces  an  admirable  and 
invaluable  Lord  Chief  Baron. 


THE    LATE   LORD    CHIEF    JUSTICE 

EkLE. 

Lord  Chief  Justice  Erie,  though 
some  few  years  younger  than  the  late 
Lord  Chief  I'laron,  and  not  so  won- 
derful a  man,  bid  fair  to  be  as 
venerable.  He  is  a  man  of  less 
vivacity  and  less  demonstrative 
energy.  His  energy  is  more  con- 
centrated, so  to  speak ;  his  mind  is 
less  enlarged  and  elastic ;  his 
manner  is  more  quiet  and  con- 
strained; his  countenance,  though 
not  so  majestic,  has  more  settled 
gravity  in  its  expression;  his  fea- 
tures are  not  so  fine,  but  his  face  is 
more  grave.  Then  his  voice,  also, 
is  more  subdued  and  restrained; 
his  utterance  is  slow,  grave,  and 
sustained;  with  no  variety  of  in- 
flection, no  alteration  of  tone  — 
monotonous,  though  earnest,  with 
a  kind  of  unchanging  emphasis, 
very  different  from  the  demonstra- 
tive and  impressive  earnestness,  the 
altered  tones  and  heightened  ac- 
cents of  the  late  Lord  Chief  Baron. 
Sir  William  Erie  was  never  known 
to  raise  his  voice  to  a  declamatory 
tone  during  all  the  twenty  years 
he  had  been  upon  the  Bench.  And 
even  when  he  was  at  the  Bar,  he 
was  strikingly  argumentative  — 
never  declamatory.  His  style  of 
speaking  was  plain  and  homely. 
He  has  a  fine  fresh  florid  counte- 
nance, with  a  mixture  of  good- 
nature and  shrewdness.  His  eyes 
are  keen,  yet  kindly,  and  his  whole 
air  and  aspect  are  thoroughly  gen- 
tlemanly. Yet  there  is  a  smack  of 
homeliness  about  him,  and  in  his 
voice  a  trace  of  provincialism  or 
rusticity.  There  is  a  comj^ressed 
energy  in  his  delivery,  shown  more 
in  earnest  emphasis  tlian  in  raised 
tones  of  voice;  indeed,  the  toin^  is 
nearly  always  the  same,  and  this 
makes  it  somewhat  monotonous; 
but  its  honesty,  its  veiy  homeliness, 
its  earnestness,  its  good  sense  always 
win  tlie  utmost  atiention,  and  gives 
great  influence  to  what   he  says. 

8   2 


S60 


SJcetcJies  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


He  pnmmcd  up  in  a  plain,  earnest, 
sensible  way,  and  never  lo.^t  a  cer- 
tain gravity  of  demeanour  wliich 
approached  to  dignity.  His  whole 
manner  and  demeanour  were  ex- 
ceedingly judicial ;  and  as  ho  Wivs 
hard-working,  smsiMe,  and  full 
of  quiet,  liusine.*s-like  energy,  he 
was  thought  one  of  the  best  of"  our 
judges.  As  he  grew  older  and 
older,  ho  reminded  one  of  the  vene- 
rable Tindal.  fic  had  a  sense  of 
quiet  humour, and  rather  liked  it; 
and,  not  long  ago,  he  paid  to  a 
counsel,  who  apologized  for  a  pally 
of  wit  which  set  the  court  laughing, 
'The  court  is  very  much  obliged  to 
any  learned  gentleman  who  iKgniles 
the  tedium  of  a  legal  argument 
with  a  little  honest  hilarity.'  But 
ho  himself  had  no  wit  or  humour 
in  him,  nor  any  spice  of  that  solemn 
waggery  in  which  the  old  Chief 
Baron  so  delighted;  altogether  he 
was  a  graver  character.  He  re- 
eembled  greatly  in  his  occa.«ional 
satirical  style  of  observation — 
though  not  in  the  musical  voice  and 
cla.'^sic  delivery— Lord  Lyndhurst 
There  was  often  something  in  his 
tone  which  seemed  to  recal  Lynd- 
hurst, before  whom  he  practi.sed 
a  great  deal,  for  whom  he  had  a 
great  admiration,  and  who  made 
him  judge.  He  resembled  him  in 
the  calmness  of  his  iLanner,  and  the 
apparent  coldness  of  his  tone ;  aris- 
ing not  from  any  deficiency  of  feel- 
ing— for  his  feelings  are  strong — 
but  from  their  stern  compres-^ion 
under  habitual  ^elf-restraint.  It  Ls 
no  secret  that,  natnndly,  his  feelings 
are  strong,  but  that  he  had  for  a 
long  course  of  years,  so  kept  them 
under  stern  restraint,  that  no  one 
rememlx;rs  any  outbieak.  He  lie- 
longed  to  an  oM  echnol,  of  which  he 
and  t'  ■  ■  ■••  '  -rd  Chief  Barejn  and 
Sir  1  y  arc  the  last  living' 

reprt     ..  They  all  had  this 

common  ciiara.  tciii^tic  :  a  certain 
meafiured  emphiL'-  s  of  utterance — 
which  lx;longed  to  a  time  when 
speaking  wa.s  more  oratorical  than 
it  is  now.  It  wa.s  ka.st  so  in  Sir 
William  Erie,  whose  nature  is 
simple  and  whose  style  is  quiet; 
still  it  was  apparent  in  his  deli- 
very, which  uas  most  monotonous, 
and  least   relieved  by   variety    of 


inflection  or  change  of  tone.  Sir 
William  Erie  is  naturally  of  an 
amiable  character.  His  tastes  and 
pursuits  are  more  rural  than  stu- 
dious; ho  is  attached  to  animals, 
especially  horses  and  dogs ;  he  is 
fond  of  open  air  exercise ;  he  spends 
mo-st  of  his  leisure  riding  al)Out. 
He  is  not  a  sportsman,  lor  he  hates 
tlie  idea  of  kdling  any  living  thing 
(except  vermin),  and  tliuy  say  he 
wont  have  the  birtLs  shot  on  his 
land,  and  that  it  is  a  pai-adi.se  for 
the  feathered  tribe.  He  may  often 
be  seen,  when  in  the  country,  with 
dogs  fondling  him,  and  tliey  say  the 
very  cart  horses  on  his  farm  know 
him.  He  is  a  thorough  English 
gentleman,  with  a  fine  honest  nature 
and  fine  manly  t.istes  and  pursuits. 
All  this  you  could  see  on  his  coun- 
tenance ;  and  if  engravings  had  but 
colour,  and  could  give  the  rueldy 
freshness  of  his  cheek,  or  the  clear 
blue  of  his  eye,  you  would  see  it 
in  his  likeness;  as  it  is,  you  can 
catch  the  keen  yet  kindly  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  with  his  pleiisant 
a.spect — so  shrewd,  so  sensible,  so 
genial. 

Few  men  were  more  beloved  and 
admired  than  Sir  Widiam  Erie.  His 
heart  was  even  Ktter  than  his  head ; 
and  his  good  and  genial  qualities 
amply  excused  anyjufirmities  of  liis 
mind. 

A  skilful  physiognomist  would 
probably  .say,  looking  at  the  coun- 
tenance of  Sir  William  Erie,  that 
his  is  not  a  mind  as  broad  as 
it  is  powerful :  not  so  comprehen- 
sive as  it  is  strong  in  its  grasp,  and 
not  so  quick  in  its  glance  as  it  is 
tenacious  in  its  holel.  And  these 
impressions  of  tiis  mental  character 
would  be  tolerably  correct.  His 
mind  was  not  su  njuch  by  any  means 
so  marked  by  breadth  as  it  was  by 
depth.  He  got  at  the  lK)ttomof  a 
subject,  so  far  as  he  went  into  it,  but 
then  he  was  apt  to  take  up  one  part 
of  it,  rather  than  to  embrace  and 
comprehend  the  whole.  He  has  a 
ix)werful  mind,  but  a  mind  rather 

fwwerful  in  its  gra'^p  of  what  it  once 
ays  hold  of,  than  in  getting  hold  of 
the  whe)le  of  what  />  to  be  got  hold 
of.  Ihe  complaint  of  Erie  was, 
that  he  was  n*^  unlikely  to  be  so 
firm  and  immovable,  on  his  first 


Slcetches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


2G1 


imprcpsion  of  a  rase,  as  never  to 
alter  it:  in  wliicli  respect  he  re- 
sembled a  good  deal  Baron  IMartin. 
Wiien  Erie,  they  said,  had  tbrmed 
his  impression,  as  to  getting  him 
to  alter  it,  you  might  as  well  try  to 
move  one  of  the  Pyramids.  This 
trait  in  his  character  was  often,  nay, 
constantly  displayed.  It  is  the  key 
to  liis  whole  character.  He  himself, 
in  his  grave,  good-hnmnured  way, 
often  avowed,  and  displayed,  this 
trait  of  character.  Thns  one  day, 
at  judge's  chambers,  after  having 
been  pressed  very  strongly  for  some 
time  against  his  own  views  by 
counsel  (a  capital  fellow,  one  Tom 
Clark),  the  Chief  Justice  said,  with 
quaint  good  humour,  '  Mr.  Clark, 
J'ln  one  of  the  must  ohstinafe  men 
in  the  tvorld.'  '  God  forbid,'  said 
Tom,  '  that  I  should  be  so  rude 
as  to  contradict  your  Lordship.' 
He  laughed,  with  the  most  thorough 
enjoyment.  Thus,  one  day,  after 
hearing  Mr.  Bovill,  as  he  thought, 
lon;j;  enough,  against  a  new  trial,  he 
rose  up,  stuck  his  thumbs  in  his 
girdle,  and,  with  a  comic  look  of 
humorous  determination,  and  a  sly 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  if  he  quite  saw 
the  fun  of  it,  and  enjoyed  it,  said, 
*  Here  we  stand,  Mr.  Bovill,  we  four 
men ;  and  we  have  all  firmly  made 
up  our  minds '  (with  an  immense 
emphasis  on  "  tirmly  ")  '  that  there 
must  be  a  new  trial.  If  you  think 
it  worth  while  going  on  after  that ' 
(playfully),  '  why,  of  course,  we'll 
hear  you,  Mr.  Bovill.'  It  need 
hardly  be  said  that  even  Mr.  Bovill 
— who  himself  is  tenacious  enough, 
and  utterly  inexhaustible  in  words 
— could  not  stand  up  any  longer, 
but  sat  down  laugliing.  On  another 
occasion,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
said— 'Mr.  So-and-so,  there  is  a 
time  in  every  man's  mind,  at  which 
he  lets  doiun  the  floodgates  of  his 
understanding,  and  allows  not  one 
drop  more  to  enter ;  and  that  time, 
in  my  mind,  has  fuUy  arrived!' 
It  was,  of  course,  hopeless  to  say 
more:  the  intense  emphasis  with 
which  it  w%as  spoken  made  it  so 
expressive  of  relentless  determina- 
tion and  tixed,  immovable  resolve. 
Now,  Cockburn  would  no  more  have 
said  either  of  these  things  than  he 
would  have  stood  on  his  head  in 


open  court.  And  no  one  who  Imows 
the  judges  would  hesitate  for  a  single 
instant,  if  he  were  told  the  stury 
without  the  name,  as  to  who  did 
say  tliem.  It  is  curious  how  an 
anecdote  may  illustrate  a  character. 
There  is  often  an  idiosyncracy  in  a 
single  expression  which  reveals  its 
author,  and  ])ortrays  his  character. 

In  many  traits  ot  his  mental  and 
jtidicial  character  Lord  Chief  Justice 
Erie  resembles  the  late  Lord  Chief 
Justice  Campbell,  with  whom  he 
sat  so  long  on  the  Queen's  Bench 
— the  same  energy ;  the  same  iron 
will ;  the  same  grave,  solid— almost 
stolid  —  gravity  and  silence;  the 
same  slow  manner,  and  quiet,  earn- 
est, dogged  demeanour.  It  is  curi- 
ous to  see  how  eminent  men  borrow 
of  each  other  some  prevailing  traits 
of  manner,  resulting,  no  doubt, 
partly  from  some  resemblance  in 
character.  There  w\as  the  same 
obstinacy  in  Campbell  as  in  Erie. 
To  move  his  mind,  once  made  up, 
was  like  trying  to  remove  from  its 
base  one  of  the  granite  mountains 
of  his  native  land.  And  it  was 
scarcely  lessdiard  in  the  case  of  Erie. 

Some  years  ago  a  writer  in  a 
quarterly  described  Erie  as,  '  Bating 
a  little  English  obstinacy,  the  be.-'t 
of  our  judges  on  the  Bench  of 
Common  Law.'  This  obstinacy  was 
the  one  flaw  in  Erie's  judicial 
character,  and  though  he  was  always 
invested  with  the  strongest  sense  of 
justice,  it  often  tended  to  counteract 
it.  It  was  a  defect  which  arose  from 
his  mental  character.  There  was  no 
sufficient  jDower  in  Erle"s  mind  of 
balancing  opposite  views.  As  if  con- 
scious of  that,  his  great  object  was 
to  get  one  view  firmly  into  his  mind, 
and  what  that  shall  be  was  deter- 
mined, sometimes-,  perhajDs,  a  little, 
by  preconceived  impressions.  There 
was  not  a  particle  of  philosophy  in 
Erie's  mind.  He  was  what  he  calls 
'  practical,'  and  he  never  delivered 
a  judgment  or  a  charge  in  which 
he  {did  not  allude  to  /  practical  ex- 
perience,' and  the  views  he  took 
were  always  rather  practical  than 
philosophical.  And  he  had  had,  no 
doubt,  a  vast  deal  of  the  practical 
experience  he  so  prized,  and  he  had 
immense  energy,  and  sound  judg- 
ment,   and    great  power  of   work, 


262 


SJcefches  of  the  Engliah  Bench  and  Bar. 


and,  on  tlio  whole,  tlio  Bar  deemed 
Liin  a  'htrnnp;'  jmlKe. 

Sir  William  Erie,  with  all  Ills 
faults,  lift  a  void  wliich  will  not 
easily  Ihj  tillnl.  Ocenrriiicr  so  soon 
after  the  rctiri'iiicnt  of  SirFiciUrick 
rollook,  it  was  tlic  more  felt.  His 
rctirciiunt,  as  it  took  place  in  full 
term,  was  a  most  impressive  sciuo, 
which  I. one  who  witncssfd  it  will 
ever  forget.  The  whole  liar  felt  that 
they  had  pustuincd  a  prievous  loss, 
and  ncvtr  was  a  judge  moro  missed 
from  bis  accustomed  seat 

MR.  JUSTICE  BYLES. 

Jfr.  Justice  Byles,  though  ho  was 
on  the  Bench  hcfore  Sir  Fitzroy,  is 
a  younger  man  than  he  is ;  and  it 
was  only  ju>t  as  Sir  Fitzroy  had 
reached  the  climax  of  his  f(n'cnsic 
carter,  some  tw(  nty  years  ago,  that 
Byles  hccanio  frcqueutly  his  rival. 
The  mcmoral)]e  case  of  Tawcll,  in 
which  Mr.  Serjeant  Byles  conducted 
the  ca'-o  for  the  i)roscontion,  and  Sir 
F.  Kelly  for  the  defence,  was  the 
most  striking  occasion  in  which  they 
were  brought  in  contact,  Byles  being 
then  ready  for  his  elevation  to  the 
Bench,  and  Sir  Fitzroy  for  his  re- 
tirement from  regular  forensic  prac- 
tice. 

Mr.  Justice  Byles  deserves  por- 
traiture in  the  same  cla.ss  as  Pollock, 
and  ICrle,  and  Kelly,  l)ecauso  bo  be- 
longs emphatically  to  the  '  old 
school ' — tiie  scliool,  for  example,  of 
Campbell,  who  for  thirty  uars  was 
the  constant  antagonist  of  Bollock; 
the  school  of  Tindal,  and  Kelly,  and 
Erie ;  a  grave,  slow,  sturdy, 
nietho<lic, decorous, dignified  scliool, 
bringing  more  to  mind  what  the  old 
lawyers  of  past  nges  might  have 
been,  anrl  what,  from  thtir  jiortraits, 
we  sliould  f.tncy  that  they  were. 

The  prevailing  characteristics  of 
the  countenance  (jf  Byles  are— calm 
energy,  great  cautim,  and  stolid 
gravity.  There  is  a  remarkable  an<l 
■unmistakeable  look  of  tirmiiess  in 
the  forehea<l,  esjMcially  just  over 
the  eye.  Somelxxly  who  had  seen 
him  in  a  great  cau-i-e  at  tlie  iJ.ir  of 
th(!  Lonls,  faid  '  ho  kntked  like  a 
lion,'  ar  d  fo  he  did.  There  is  an 
iron  energy  aWmt  the  foreheail 
and  eyes  and  the  whole  face  very 


rarely  met  with ;  and  his  tone  and 
manner  of  speech  was  what  one 
might  fancy  from  such  a  counte- 
nance— ijuiet,  calm,  slow,  grave,  sen- 
teiitious,  with  a  sort  of  compressed 
energy  and  iron  ter.-^eness,  so  to 
sjxak,  which  is  wonderfully  impres- 
sive. 

His  manner,  even  at  the  Bar,  was 
rather  judicial  tiian  fonn-ic,  and  was 
(|uite  the  manner  of  tlie  old  lawyers. 
Ho  had  more  the  air  of  a  judge  than 
an  advocate;  and  he  seemed  marked 
out  by  nature  for  his  present  posi- 
tion. In  this  respect  ho  resembled 
the  late  Lord  Cam])bcll,  who-^e  great 
fori'-  was  gravity,  and  it  is  wonder- 
ful what  a  force  there  is  in  it.  Upon 
his  model  Byles  formed  hi.s  style. 
He  has  the  very  gestuie  of  Campbell, 
the  only  one  he  ever  allowed  himself, 
— standing  still  and  immoveable  as 
a  statue,— and  holding  up  his  right 
hanil.  It  is  a  f-imple  gesture,  but 
when  done  slowly,  solemnly,  calmly, 
with  a  grave  air,  and  an  earnest 
utterance,  it  has  an  impressive  ef- 
fect. At  all  events  it  was  all  the 
action  C^ampbell  or  Byles  ever  had, 
and  it  went  a  great  way  with  them. 
Byles  recalls  old  Caiiijibell  moro 
than  any  other  judge  on  the  Bench. 
There  was  no  man  at  the  Bar  bo 
cautious  —  some  said  crafty  —  as 
Byles.  There  is  a  story  of  one  of 
the  (iuildhall  jurors  being  overheard 
to  say,  when  Byles  entered  the 
court,  '  Here  comes  (jld  Crafty!'  lie 
was  indeed  a  most  formidat)le  antago- 
nist; always  astute  and  observant; 
ever  watchful,  and  ever  wary;  calm, 
cool,  and  collected;  never  ofT  his 
guard  for  an  instant.  Ho  was  really 
such  a  man  as  you  nn'ght  imagine 
Coke  to  have  ken,  or  Cecil — grave, 
cold,  astute,  taciturn,  keen,  ol».serv- 
ant,  cautious,  suspicious,  undemon- 
strative,  unimpnssioned,  full  of 
deep,  quiet  energy,  though  without 
warmth,  without  eloquence;  that  is, 
eloquence,  as  a  thing  of  genius  and 
warmth  and  imagination.  There 
was  jilenty  of  force  and  power — 
very  weighty  were  tliosu  words  of 
his,  falling  so  gravely  and  with 
such  compressed  energy  from  his 
lips  ;  and  even  now,  upon  the 
Bench,  in  summing  up  an  important 
cjuso,  there  is  not  a  single  judge 
upon  the    Bench    (since    rollock) 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


263 


whoso  tone  and  manner  have  such 
an  impressive  eiTect,  such  an  air  of 
solemn  dignity,  as  Mr.  Justice 
Byles.  This,  and  a  certain  vein  of 
quaint,  grave,  dry  humour,  and  a 
fondness  for  old-fashioned  '  saws ' 
and  sayings,  make  him  quite  one 
of  the  '  old  school,'  and  carry  us 
back  ages  in  our  'mind's  eye'  to 
the  days  of  the  old  Elizabethan 
lawyers.  If  any  one  wishes  to  have 
an  idea  how  they  looked,  and  spoke, 
and  expressed  themselves,  the  best 
way  is  to  look  at  Mr.  Justice  Byles. 
Also,  if  one  wishes  to  have  a  notion 
of  the  difference  between  the  old 
school,  and  the  new  school,  let  him, 
after  looking  at  Byles,  look  at  Bram- 
well.  If  he  wants  to  go  further 
back  than  Elizabethan  times,  and 
have  an  idea  of  the  rude,  rough, 
blunt  vigour  of  older  days,  let  him 
look  at  Martin— or,  rather,  look  at 
and  listen  to  him — and  he  will  have 
an  idea  of  what  judges  were  in  ages 
before  they  were  formal  and  conven- 
tional, as  they  had  become  in  Eliza- 


bethan days,  and  as  exemplified  in 
Mr.  Justice  Byles.  But,  indeed, 
there  would  be  no  need  to  go  out 
of  his  own  court  to  seek  at  once  a 
resemblance  and  a  contrast ;  for  by 
his  side  sits  Mr.  Justice  Willes, 
quite  Elizabethan  in  his  aspect — 

'  With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut.' 

and  the  Chief  of  his  Court  is  Sir 
William  Bovill,  keen,  quick,  sharp, 
fluent,  off-hand  in  his  tone  and 
manner,  quite  of  the  modern  school, 
and  as  great  a  contrast  to  Byles  as 
it  is  possible  to  conceive.  But  that 
Mr.  Justice  Byles  belongs  so  em- 
phatically to  the  old  school  of  which 
he  and  Sir  Fitzroy  are  now  the  last 
upon  the  Bench,  it  would  have 
been  unfit  to  give  him  precedence 
to  the  Chief  Justice;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Chief  Justice  must 
not  be  brought  in  at  the  end  of  a 
chapter,  and  he  will,  therefore,  as 
the  head  of  the  new  school  of 
judges  commence  the  next  group 
of  sketches. 


264 


PLAYING  FOll  HIGH  STAKES. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

KIN   AND   KIND. 


IT  was  lifird  on  Miss  Lyon  to  bn 
coaipt'llcJ  to  sunendiT  her  own 
juiljjrnient  on  a  matter  that  was  of 
much  uioiuent  to  lier;  l)iit,  on  tho 
wliolo,  it  was  expedient  tliat  she 
Bliould  do  so,  and,  since  slio  could 
raise  no  insiirniountaMo  barrier  to 
tho  Roinp:,  tliat  she  shunld  go  as 
amiably  as  niij^ht  be  in  her  mother's 
train  to  Mr.  Tnlbot's  house.  Her 
sole  aversion  to  the  .scheme,  indeed, 
was  to  bo  found  in  the  fact  of  her 
distrust  of  Mrs.  Sutton,  and  know- 
ledf^eof  Mrs.  »Suttou's  di.slikc  to  her- 
self. Mr.  Talbot's  hopes  and  fears, 
and  doubts  and  sentiments  gene- 
rally, respecting  her,  were  so  many 
sealed  books  to  this  girl,  who  was 
genuinely  indiifcrent  to  him.  Had 
flio  not  been  tiiis,  there  would  have 
bfcn  another  disquieting  element 
added  to  her  state  of  mind  on  tho 
subject. 

*  When  once  Blanche  had  made  up 
her  mind  as  to  the  inevitability,  or 
at  any  rate  the  advi.'-ability,  of  a 
cnur.«e,  she  never  paused  to  question 
the  superior  propriety  there  would 
have  l)een  in  pursuing  any  other. 
]f  the  patli  she  had  taken  proved 
more  miry,  and  the  briars  and  tiiorns 
by  tho  wayside  moro  prickly  than 
she  hail  foreseen,  siie  did  not  pauso 
to  lament  the.se  facts,  and  to  specu- 
late on  the  superior  advantages  pos- 
sibly possessed  by  the  roads  she  had 
not  fdlioweil.  She  only  trod  moro 
carefully,  and  more  untiringly 
pressed  back  tho  obstructions,  with- 
out ever  halting  to  bewail  what 
mi^;ht  have  Uen. 

In  this  special  ii, stance'  she  had  to 
malco  up  her  mind  with mt  delay, 
V)eing  d(  sirous  of  having  some  defi- 
nite opinion  of  her  own  to  advance 
when  she  mot  her  mother  in  tlio 
morning.  Fell  experience  had  taiipht 
lilanche  that  any  lioi)es  of  a  calm 
an<l  w<  ll-balanced  discussion  of  a 
plan  with  ^Irs.  Lyon  were  l>uilt  upf)n 
sand.  Mrs.  J^yon  would  Ibu  ntly  sit 
forth  long  rolls  of  agreeable  and  ex- 
tremely improbable  possibilities  — 


would  liopefully  first  suggest,  and 
then  assert,  and  tlun  proceed  to  pro- 
sage  a  further  train  of  fortunate 
events  in  the  freshest  manner.  But 
tho  lightest  hint  to  tho  etfect  that 
her  eloqiunce,  prai.seworthy  as  it 
was  in  it.H'lf,  had  tlie  slight  draw- 
back of  being  founded  ujjon  slippery 
and  untenal>le  grounds,  was  sulli- 
ciiiit  to  chnnge  the  joy  strain  into  a 
dirge,  tlie  jiiean  that  celebrated  her 
hop  s  into  a  piteous  protest  against 
tljc  fate  tliat  was  always  less  l)right 
than  she  had  antieii)atcd  its  being 
live  minutes  before ;  and  the  daugh- 
ter, who  Mas  stoutly  opposed  to 
abiding  alternately  in  a  glittering 
palace  of  hope  and  a  gloomy  cavern 
of  despair. 

*  It  will  bo  useless  to  talk  it 
over  with  mamma,'  ]]lancho  Lyon 
thought;  'I  shall  never  glean  from 
her  whether  it  will  bo  well  for  me 
to  fall  in  with  her  plans  or  to  oppose 
them.'  So,  in  default  of  another, 
she  talked  it  over  with  herself,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that,  since 
she  could  propose  nothing  letter, 
and  since  her  objections  to  tho  plan 
were,  after  all,  of  a  puerile,  pergonal 
nature,  that  she  would  agree,  and 
make  the  I 'est  of  it. 

It  must  bo  understood  that  Mrs. 
Lyon's  knowledge  of  tho  world  into 
which  she  had  umlertaken  to  intro- 
duce Beatrix  Talbot  was  of  tho 
se'antiest  order;  that  her  instincts 
were  not  those  keen,  bright  ones 
whiidi  save  their  jjiK^ises-sors  from  tho 
thousand  snares  laid  on  all  sides  for 
them  in  social  life;  tl.at  she  had 
never  been  known  to  do  the  best 
thing  by  intm'tion;  and  that  all 
these  facts  were  jiainfully  )iat(  nt  to 
her  child.  Still  Blaiiche'felt  that  it 
behoved  her  to  Ihj  passive,  and  she 
resolved  that,  as  sIk!  had  to  Iww  to 
the  inevitable,  she  would  do  it  be- 
comingly. 

In  her  own  inefllcient  way  Mrs. 
liyoii  had  armed  horself  for  a  sort  of 
conftst  by  breakfast  time,  the  morn- 
ing after  Blanche's  return.   She  had 


Playing  for  High  Slakes. 


'265 


charged  lier  memory  with  countless 
precedents  t]i;it  bore  a  pale  rcf-cra- 
blanco  to  the  case,  and  she  had  come 
to  a  comprehension  of  the  propriety 
of  keeping  silence  about  her  fondest, 
proudest  hope  in  the  aftair.  As  in  a 
glass,  darkly,  she  Faw  that  Kdgar 
Talbot  had  that  feeling  which  difter- 
ent  women  call  by  a  different  name 
for  her  daughter;  and  with  greater 
clearness  of  vision  she  saw  that, 
if  her  daughter  suspected  this,  or 
even  suspected  that  she  (Mrs.  Lyon) 
suspected  it,  the  end  would  come 
quickly,  and  would  be  unsatisfactory 
to  herself,  and  suicidal  on  Blanche's 
part. 

At  times  it  was  given  to  this 
mother  to  have  a  mother's  insight 
into  her  child's  feelings,  and  this 
chanced  to  be  one  of  these  fine  and 
rai'ely-occurring  occasions.  By  reason 
of  the  little  thought  she  gave  to 
him,  Blanche  Lyon  had  no  fear  of 
being  accused  of  *  following  him 
up,'  or  of  '  throwing  herself  in  his 
way,'  or,  in  fact,  of  doing  any  of  the 
delicate  tactics  with  the  commission 
of  which  women  are  so  apt  to  charge 
one  another.  The  epidemic  love  had 
never  shown  itself  in  his  case  in 
any  of  the  signs  with  which  Blanche 
was  familiar.  He  had  been  kind  and 
considerate  in  a  gentlemanly,  distant 
way,  that  made  no  impression  what- 
ever on  a  girl  whose  father  had 
theoretically  impressed  her  with  the 
belief  that  all  men  would  be  (or 
ought  to  be)  these  things  to  her,  or 
to  any  other  well-born  beauty.  And 
this  truth  got  borne  in  upon  Mrs. 
Lyon's  mind  some  way  or  other,  and 
was  a  very  shield  and  buckler  to  her 
when  the  matter  was  mooted  by 
Blanche,  who,  in  accordance  with 
her  plan  of  putting  the  fairest  face 
on  what  must  be,  asked — 

'  When  are  yoii  thinking  of  going 
to  Mr.  Talbot's  mamma  ?' 

'  Well,  it  will  be  very  des^irable  to 
go  there  as  soon  as  possible,  Blanche/ 
Mrs.  Lyon  replied,  with  an  important 
earnestness  that  would  have  been 
intinitely  more  amusing  to  Blanche 
if  the  lady  who  di>^played  it  had  not 
been  her  own  mother.  '  As  soon  as 
possible;  for  poor  Mi?s  Talbot  is 
quite  alone — no  one  to  see  after  her.  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  reconcile  it  to  my 
conscience  to  delay  unnecessarily.' 


Blanche  checked  a  laugh,  and  ha- 
zarded a  few  guesses  in  the  depths 
of  her  soul  as  to  the  present  state  of 
the  one  to  whom  Mrs.  Lyon  designed 
to  play  the  part  of  guide,  philoso- 
pher, and  friend.  '  1  will  be  no 
hindran'c  to  you, mamma.  Tell  me 
your  arrangements,  and  I  will  fall 
in  Avith  them,' she  said, quickly ;  and 
when  she  said  that,  Mrs.  Ljon  felt 
a  little  disai)pointed,  in  that  she 
had  put  on  such  trusty  armour 
for  nothing,  and  proceeded  to  raise 
a  little  cloud  of  obstacles  to  a  de- 
parture. 

'  It  is  utterly  impossible  that  I  can 
get  away  from  here  at  a  day's  notice,' 
she  began,  in  a  gentle,  injured  tone. 
'  They  are  not  like  low  lodgings — 
most  respectable,  and,  I  will  say, 
most  comfortable.  I  cannot  leave 
them  all  in  a  hurry,  as  if  I  thought 
them— as  if  they  were— as  if  I 
had ' 

'  Certainly  not,'  Blanche  inter- 
rupted, as  Mrs.  Lyon  floundered 
hopelessly  into  a  labyrinth  of  the 
mistiest  meanings — '  certainly  not. 
The  longer  we  stay  here  the  better, 
I  think.' 

'  There  it  is/  IMrs.  Lyon  struck  in, 
querulously  ,  '  you're  just  like  your 
father,  Blanche — never  satisfied  with 
what  I  do,  though  I  always  try  to 
do  for  the  best.' 

'  Well,  mother,  shall  I  say  that 
the  sooner  we  go  the  better  ?' Blanche 
replied,  good-temperedly. 

'  Ah !  there  you  go  from  one  ex- 
treme to  the  other,'  ]\L.'S.  Lyon  re- 
sumed, looking  round  at  the  walls 
and  fire-irons,  as  if  she  would  ask 
them  to  bear  witness  to  the  justice 
and  truth  of  what  she  was  saying, 
— '  always  wanting  to  do  things  in  a 
hurry,  without  weighing  the  conse- 
quences-just like  your  poor  dear 
father.  "  The  sooner  we  go  the 
better."  It's  easy  to  say  that,  Blanche 
— very  easy  to  say  it ;  but  I  have  to 
think  and  consider — and  reflect.' 

Mrs.  Lyon  pronounced  the  last 
word  as  if  it  was  something  that  dif- 
fered widely  from  everything  else 
which  she  had  declared  she  had  to 
do— pronounced  it  in  a  tone  of  suf- 
fering triumph,  and  at  the  same  time 
with  a  conclusive  air  that  might 
almost  have  been  the  offspring  of 
deep  thought  and  decided  convic- 


2CG 


Playing  for  Iligh  Stakes. 


tion.  Blniiohewas  not  doluded  into 
Bupposiiif;  it  to  Ihj  this  thi)iit;li,  slio 
kiKJw  it  intiniiittly.  Mrs.  Lyou  pre- 
Bently  wint  on — 

'  1  havo  to  think  and  consider  and 
rcntct,  as  1  hope  yon  will  hava  learnt 
to  do  wlien  you're  my  nj^c  I  aiu 
not  going  to  have  Mr.  Talbot  sup- 
pose that  I  aui  iuipatiuiit  to  go 
there;  and  I  am  not  going  till  I  am 
perfectly  ])rtp;iri'd  and  can  go  there 
comlort.il)ly.  You  eat  nothing, 
Blanche  ;  wliat  is  the  matter  ?' 

'  Nothing,'  Blanche  replied.  The 
matter  was,  that  she  was  donhtiug 
iier  own  caj)ahility  not  only  of  being 
a  passive  witness  'of  all  this,'  as  she 
phrased  it,  but  of  peeing  others  see 
it  too;  doubting  her  own  cai)ability 
of  sufTcring  tliis,  and  determining 
that  if  JNIi^s  Talbot  proveil  in  tho 
slightest  degree  to  be  like  Mrs.  Sut- 
ton she  (Blanche)  could  not  stand 
it, 

A  few  days  after  this  tho  test 
commenced.  ^Irs.  and  i\Iiss  Lyon 
at  Mr.  and  Mi.-s  Talbot's  earnest 
request  took  up  their  abode  in 
Victoria  Street,  and  now  the  interest 
of  this  story  commences  in  the  meet- 
ing ot  I'lanche  and  Beatrix — tho 
two  women  who  were  born  to  cro.«s 
each  other's  paths,  to  pain  and  in- 
jure one  another — to  whoso  intro- 
duction to  each  other  all  that  has 
l>een  written  has  been  but  a  pre- 
liminary strain. 

Mrs.  Sutton  had  blandly  volnn- 
teere<l  to  come  her.^elf  and  to  bring 
her  husband  and  Lionel  to  spend 
tho  first  evening,  and  obviate  any- 
thing like  awkwardness.  She  had 
made  the  offer  to  Beatrix  in  a  sweet 
considerate  way,  that  won  Beatrix's 
immediate  acceptance  of  it.  ^liss 
Tall)ot  had  her  reward  when  tho 
time  arrived, ami  with  it  Jlrs.  Sutton, 
for  Mr.  Bat  burst  accompanied  them, 
and  Mr.  I'.atliurst  had  in  tho  course 
of  a  few  meetings  reconnneniled 
iiimsclf  large-ly  to  Trixy.  Tlic  one 
(Irawl)ack  slie  permitted  herself  to 
feel  to  the  jilca'iure  of  his  f-ociety  on 
this  occasion  was,  that  Edgar  was 
palpably  a  touch  less  tliau  pleased 
toseeFraiik  I'.athurHt.  Trixy  would 
not  permit  herself  to  starch  for  a 
reason  for  this  almost  imixrceptiblo 
shade  of  difference;  indeed,  sho 
resolutely  looked  away  from  it  when 


it  obtruded  itself  upon  her  notice. 
Mrs.  Sutton  was  less  scrupulous. 

'  Let  us  hope  that  the  kinship  is  a 
well-established  fact,  for  they  cer- 
tainly seem  more  than  kind  to  each 
other,'  slio  whispered  to  Beatrix, 
while  Frank  Bathurst  was  pouring 
out  a  plaintive,  low-toned  reproach 
to  Miss  Lyon  for  not  having  replied 
to  his  ativances  towards  a  good 
understanding  long  ago.  And 
Beatrix  replied — 

'  And  why  should  thoy  not  bo 
more  than  kind,  Marian?  I  know 
of  no  rea.son ;"  and  ached  to  know 
that  there  was  no  reason,  so  far  as 
she  was  herself  concerned,  and 
checked  a  little  sigh  at  tho  sj^eedy 
seeming  defalcation  of  this  mau 
whom  she  had  only  known  the  other 
day,  and  tried  totliink  '  what  a  well- 
matched  i«iir  they  would  be,'  and 
could  not  heartily  approve  them 
nevertheless. 

They  were  a  very  handsome, 
bright  pair,  a  pair  that  took  to  each 
other  joyously  and  suddenly,  causing 
]\lrs.  Lyon  to  undergo  most  wonder- 
ful transitions  of  feeling  as  sho 
marked  them.  Mr.  Talbot  became  a 
mere  nothing  in  her  estinmtion,  and 
Frank  Bathurst  stood  revealed  at 
once  as  the  fitting  and  proper  man, 
foredoomed  by  nature  and  old  Mr. 
Ljon  to  marry  her  daughter.  Sho 
almost  deported  hersc:lf  hauglitily.to 
tho  Talbots  under  tho  inlluenco  of 
thisconvi(ti(m,  and  judiciously  mur- 
mured her  belief  in  its  being  a  well- 
founded  one  into  Trixy  Talbot's  ear. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  more  than 
one  heart  ached  and  beat  high  and 
painfully  beneath  Edgar  Talbot's 
roof  that  night,  alter  they  ha<f 
separated  on  tho  agreement  of  all 
meeting  at  Frank  Bathurst's  studio 
the  following  day. 

No  attempt  his  l)een  made  to 
depict  what  were  tho  prevailing  sen- 
sations of  Miss  Talliot  and  l'>lancho 
Lyon  on  this  tlieir  first  meeting, 
Tho  external  aspect  was  fair  and 
pleasant  enough,  for  they  were  both 
gracious-mamiered  women,  with  a 
goo<l  deal  of  cultivation  superadded 
to  their  innate  refinement;  and  it 
would  liavo  jarred  upon  tlieir  tastes 
to  show  olher  than  a  very  smooth 
social  surface.  But  they  did  not 
conccivo   and  instantly  develop   a 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


267 


devoted  attachment  and  enthusiastic 
admiration  for  one  another.  To  a 
certain  degree  Beatrix  Talbot  was  in 
the  place  of  power,  and  the  half- 
consciousness  that  she  was  this  may 
have  been  the  cause  of  the  shade  of 
restraint  which  made  itself  manifest 
in  her  demeanour  two  or  three  times 
— a  shade  which  she  strove  to  dispel 
qnickly  in  her  sunniest  way,  but 
which  remained  long  enough  for 
Mrs.  Sutton  to  remark  it,  and  to 
fathom  the  cause  of  it  to  a  certain 
extent. 

'  There  is  something  very  incon- 
gruous between  Miss  Lyon's  po- 
sition and  her  cousin;  to  which 
do  you  think  her  best  adapted  ?' 
the  married,  sister  kindly  asked 
Beatrix  ;   and  Beatrix  replied — 

'  I  won't  indulge  in  vague  specula- 
tions about  her ;'  and  then  immedi- 
ately added, '  there  is  something  in- 
congruous in  Mr.  Bathurst's  cousin 
being  about  in  the  world  in  this  way ; 
it  must  strike  them  both  painfully.' 

'  No,  pleasurably  rather ;  he  is  at 
once  patronizing  and  adoring,  lord 
and  lover — King  Cophetua  on  a 
small  scale — and  a  gratified  artist. 
Poor  Trixy  I  your  reign  is  over.' 

'  It  never  commenced.' 

'  Indeed  it  did,  and  was  not  alto- 
gether inglorious;  traces  of  your 
rule  are  to  be  seen  in  his  studio ;  he 
has  sketched  you  in  for  his  Venus, 
and  I  don't  think  Miss  Lyon  will 
succeed  you  there,  for  he  would 
have  so  much  trouble  in  idealizing 
her  nose  into  proper  proportion  that 
he  would  weary  of  that  type  sooner 
than  of  yours.  We  will  ask  Lionel 
what  he  thinks  about  it.    Lionel !' 

Lionel  came  at  her  call,  and 
hstened  to  her  remarks,  and  then 
declared  himself  incapable  of  throw- 
ing any  light  on  his  friend's  final 
election  either  in  the  matter  of 
Venus  or  anything  else.  In  reply 
to  Mrs.  Sutton's  inquiry,  'Should 
you  say  he  is  a  marrying  man, 
Lionel  V  Lionel  answered,  '  No,  in- 
deed ;  any  more  than  I  should  say 
that  he  is  not  a  marrying  man.' 

'  Should  you  like  him  to  marry 
Beatrix?'  She  whispered  this  ea- 
gerly, cutting  Beatrix  out  of  the 
conversation  by  the  low  tone  she 
used.  Lionel's  reply  was  made 
in  an  equally  low  tone. 


'  No,  certainly  not." 

'Then  you  know  something  about 
him — something  against  him  ?' 

'  About  him,  yes ;  against  him,  not 
a  breath.' 

'  If  ho  does  not  marry  Trixy  he 
will  that  Miss  Lyon,  mark  my 
words.' 

Lionel  turned  his  head  and  looked 
at  the  pair  mentioned.  '  That  would 
be  better  far,'  he  said. 

'  Why  so  ?  you  do  know  something 
against  him.  Lionel.' 

'I  only  know  that  he  has  the 
germs  of  inconstancy  in  him;  the 
latest  thing  is  ajit  to  be  the  best  in 
his  eyes.  If  the  shadow  of  a  change 
fell,  Miss  Lyon  would  either  arrest 
it  or  be  entirely  uninfluenced  by  it. 
I  am  not  so  sure  of  Beatrix,' 

'  Then  you'll  all  come  to  our 
studio  to-morrow?'  Mr.  Bathurst 
exclaimed,  interrupting  the  con- 
versatitm  at  this  juncture  by  coming 
up  to  them.  '  Miss  Lyon  refuses  to 
be  considered  an  art  enthusiast,  but 
she  is  good  enough  to  be  interested 
in  my  works;  what  time  will  you 
come  ?' 

'Shall  it  be  two?'  Mrs.  Sutton 
suggested. 

'  It  shall  be  two,  and  it  shall  be 
luncheon,'  Mr.  Bathurst  replied. 
And  then  Blanche  joined  them,  and 
recommenced  the  old  game  of  self- 
assertion,  which  she  had  played 
down  at  the  Grange  against  Mrs. 
Sutton,  by  saying — 

'  Until  I  know  whether  or  not 
the  plan  suits  my  mother,  I  can  say 
nothing.' 

'  Nor  I,  of  course,'  Beatrix  put  in, 
hurriedly. 

'  You  can  go  with  me,'  Mrs.  Sutton 
said,  with  a  well-marked  emphasis 
on  the  '  you,'  which  completely 
excluded  Blanche  from  the  proposed 
arrangement. 

'  Thanks ;  but  Mrs.  Lyon  will 
order  my  goings  now,  IMarian,' 
Trixy  replied,  with  a  humility  she 
would  not  have  expressed  if  her 
sister  had  not  offered  a  slight  to 
Blanche.  Then  Mrs.  Lyon  rejoined 
them  with  some  knitting  whicii  had 
been  specially  designed  for  this 
evening's  employment,  towards 
which  end  it  had  been  carefully  put 
away  in  the  most  remote  corner  of 
her  largest  trunk.    She  was  acqui- 


2G3 


Playing  for  High  SlaJcea. 


escent  and  anxious  to  oblipo  every 
one  on  tlio  plan  lx;ing  nio  >tt'(l  to 
her,  and  tlicn  she  was  assaik<l  by 
Ea<lik'ning  do\il>t.s  as  to  her  hoinjjj 
uantofl.  '  YontiL;  people  like!  being 
by  themselves,'  she  observed;  and 
then  at  onoo  proceeded  to  qualify 
that  statement  by  declaring  that  sho 
'should  not  think  of  letting  Miss 
Talltot  and  Blanche  go  aluno,  not 
for  a  moment.' 

'  Then  it  is  fettled,  mamma,  wo  go 
at  two?'  IJIiincho  said,  hastily. 

'  If  that  hour  suits  Mr.  Tultx)tand 
Sir.  Ikthurst.'  Mrs.  Lyon  was  pain- 
fully anxious  to  propitiate  every  one. 

'  That  is  all  understood,'  Blanche 
ex])laint(l ;  and  then  they  parted : 
Mrs.  Sutton  whispering  to  her  sister, 
aa  she  took  leave,  '  Your  duenna  is 
a  delightful  person ;  your  position 
will  1)0  a  touch  less  ridiculous  than 
her  daughter's— there  is  consolation 
in  that.' 

'Thanks  for  offering  it,'  Trixy 
replied,  wearily.  Then  she  liad  to 
give  her  hand  to  Mr.  Bathurst. 

'  You  will  see  to-morrow  what 
cause  I  have  to  be  grateful  to  you, 
Miss  Tall)ot,'  he  said,  as  her  great 
violet  eyes  met  his  rather  reproach- 
fully;  and  she  could  think  of  nothing 
more  brilliant  to  reply  than  '  fcjhail 
1  indeed  ?' 

'  Yes,  indeed  you  will ;  and  I  owe 
you  another  debt:  you  are  the  cause 
of  my  knowing  ray  cousin  at  last.' 

'Ah!  good  night!'  Trixy  evi- 
dently wanted  no  verbal  rewurd  for 
this  gootl  deed;  sho  turned  away 
almost  impatiently  from  his  thanks 
to  say  'gfK)d-liye'to  her  brother. 

Presently,  for  the  first  time  that 
evening,  Miss  Lyon  found  herself 
near  to  Lionel  Tall)Ot. 

'May  we  see  your  picture,  too?' 
she  asked. 

'  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in 
showing  it  to  you.' 

She  laiighed  and  shook  her  head. 

'  No,  no— neither  pleasure,  nor  re- 
luctance, nor  any  otlier  active  feel- 
ing. You  wont  care  a  bit  what  wo 
think — and  you  will  bo  so  right.' 
She  rlropjx'd  her  voice  suddf-nly  in 
nttering  the  last  words;  they  fell 
uj>on  his  ears  alone. 

lie  felt  that  he  could  not  consci- 
ontiously  say  that  he  should  Ix;  very 
much  interested  as  to  what  they 


thought  of  his  work;  therefore  he 
did  not  answer  her  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. During  those  few  moments 
a  slight  transition  took  place  in  his 
mind  respecting  his  interlocutor,  and 
so  he  told  her,  honestly  enough,  that 
he  should  care  for  her  opinion  :  '  and 
you  will  give  it  to  me,  and  mo  alone, 
will  yon  not?'  he  added,  earnestly. 

'  So  be  it,'  sho  said,  ligiitly.  '  I 
have  given  the  same  i)roraiso  to 
my  cousin.  1  should  give  the  same 
promise  to  a  dozen  men,  if  they 
asked  me-and  prol)ably  break  it.' 

She  looked  up  questioningly  into 
his  face  as  sho  put  the  probability 
before  him. 

'  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  you 
will  keep  it?' 

'I  think  I  shall.' 

'  I  know  you  will.' 

'And  you  will  not  care  whether  I 
do  or  not.  Praise  or  blame,  it's  all 
alike  to  you,  Mr.  Bathurst  says.' 

'  And  as  a  rule  ho  is  right,'  Lionel 
replied,  lauphing  ;  and  Blanche  felt 
for  a  moment  that  it  would  be  plea- 
sant to  be  the  exceptionally  regarded 
one. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

'  \^TIAT  AltE  THE  WILD  WAVES  SATING  ?' 

Mr.  Talbot  had  been  fceTing  too 
profoundly  dissatisfied  with  him.self 
and  the  result  of  his  schemes  for  his 
sister's  social  well-being,  to  take  an 
active  jiart  in  the  drawing-room  en- 
tertainment which  has  just  been 
sketched.  Absence  really  had  made 
his  heart  grow  fonder.  The  months 
that  had  ela]ised  since  that  time  of 
their  being  togijther  at  the  Grango 
ha<l  ripened  his  admiration  for 
Blanche  Lyon  into  love.  From  tho 
moment  he  looked  upon  her  again 
— seeing  her  therein  his  own  house, 
sitting  by  his  fireside  as  if  sho  were 
at  homo — knowing  that  sho  would 
Ik)  there  to  fay  '  good  morning  '  to 
him  when  he  went  out,  that  her 
welcoming  word  ami  smile  would  1)0 
a  thing  that  might  bo  his  every 
night,  wlien  he  came  back  wearied 
with  the  l)urden  and  heat  of  tho  day 
— tho  moment  he  saw  her  again  and 
realized  all  \\i\<,  he  d(tteriiiined  to 
win  htr  if  he  eouhl.  No  considera- 
tion of  fortune  should  stay  him.    Ho 


Playing  for  High  Slalces. 


269 


would  just  wait  for  some  one  of  his 
many  imiwrtant  ventures  to  come  to 
a  successful  issue,  and  tlien  he 
would  marry  I\liss  Lyon,  if  she 
woiald  have  him. 

Six  months  apo  be  would  not 
have  inserted  this  clause  in  his 
mental  declaration  of  intentions. 
But  now  tlie  doubt  sprang  into 
strong  and  lusty  being,  and  would 
not  be  banished  as  a  mere  creature 
of  his  disordered  imagination.  Six 
months  ago  he  had  very  naturally 
thought  of  Miss  Lyon  as  a  girl  living 
in  deep  and  rarely  broken  seclusion, 
as  an  intellectual  creature  who 
would  unavoidably  contrast  him 
favourably  with  other  breakers  of 
the  same.  Insensibly  he  had  pre- 
sumed on  the  position,  and  had 
brought  all  his  energies  to  bear  upon 
the  solution  of  the  problem  of  how 
he  should  gratify  himself  with  her 
society,  and  at  the  same  time  keep 
himself  free  from  all  suspicion  of 
having  any  intentions  whatever.  He 
had  played  his  cards  well ;  but  he 
began  to  fear  that  he  had  played 
them  for  other  people,  when  Frank 
Bathurst  came  in  Mrs.  Sutton's  wake, 
and,  on  the  unassailable  plea  of  con- 
sanguinity, monopolized  Blanche's 
attention — attention  which  she  gave 
with  a  winning  gladness  that  planted 
thorns  in  the  pillow  of  the  man  who 
knew  that  his  reputation  as  a  grave 
business  man  had  prevented  his 
getting  as  near  to  her  during  long 
days  spent  together  as  this  gay 
stranger  had  managed  to  get  in  an 
hour  by  aid  of  a  certain  calm  auda- 
city that  sat  upon  him  gracefully 
enough.  He  compelled  himself  to 
allow  that  it  was  natural,  fitting, 
and  well  that  Blanche  should  be 
fascinated  from  him  by  a  man  so 
much  brighter  than  himself;  yet, 
withal,  he  could  not  quite  free  her 
from  the  charge  of  ingratitude  which 
his  sore  heart  brought  against  her. 
It  was  grievous  to  him  that  his  love 
should  liave  been  the  direct  cause  of 
her  meeting  with  her  cousin.  And 
'now  his  love  was  nothing  to  her, 
and  her  cousin  would  be  everything. 
So  he  told  himself  as  he  sat 
sulkily  behind  a  magazine  watching 
them,  and  being  injured  by  them  in 
every  tone  they  used  and  every 
glance  they  gave.    In  his  jealous 


injuslico,  ho  would  neither  bo  quite 
one  of  them,  nor  would  ho  quite  set 
himself  apart  from  them.  It  was  not 
the  least  painful  prick  that  he  got 
that  niglit  when  he  paw  that  they 
were  unfeignedly  blind  to  his  beinyr, 
or  having  cause  to  be,  injured.  It 
was  almost  a  relief  to  him  to  blame 
Marian  for  having  brought  Mv.  Ba- 
tliurst  to  his  house ;  a  relief  he 
sought  to  the  full  by  ctnsuring  Mrs. 
Sutton  to  her  husband,  wlio  did  care 
for  it,  instead  of  to  herself,  who 
would  not  have  done  so.  '  We  have 
only  Lionel's  word  for  his  being  a 
decent  fellow,'  he  said,  severely,  to 
Mark  Sutton ;  '  and  here  is  Marian 
taking  him  into  the  bosom  of  the 
family  without  hesitation.  If  I  were 
you,  I  would  check  it.' 

'  He  is  related  to  the  Lyons,' 
]\Iark  Sutton  said,  by  way  of  extenu- 
ating Marians  last  offence. 

'  A  relation  they  have  shunned 
until  now,  when  he  is  thrust  upon 
them  in  my  house  by  my  sister. 
Marian  will  do  as  she  likes  as  long 
as  you'll  let  her;  but  I  shall  tell 
Lionel  that  I  can  have  no  Bohe- 
mians here  while  Beatrix  is  with  me ' 

'  He  has  one  of  the  finest  proper- 
ties in  shire,'  Mr.  Sutton  re- 
plied. '  You  can't  shut  him  out  on 
the  score  you  have  stated.  Beatrix 
couldn't  do  better — and  you  want 
her  to  marry  well.' 

'  Beatrix  is  much  too  sensible  a 
girl  to  care  for  him.' 

'Perhaps  you  don't  think  the 
same  of  Miss  Lyon  V  Mr.  Sutton 
asked,  laughingly ;  but  Edgar  Tal- 
bot only  lo  iked  moody  by  way  of  a 
reply ;  so  Mark  deemed  it  prudent 
to  turn  the  subject;  and  soon  after 
they  had  all  separated,  as  has  been 
told. 

It  will  easily  be  understood  that 
the  plan  of  visiting  the  studio  was  a 
specially  obnoxious  one  to  Edgar 
Talbot.  He  was  strongly  moved 
once  or  twice  to  set  his  face  agninst 
Beatrix's  going,  and,  by  so  doing, 
putting  an  end  to  the  arrange- 
ment. But  he  remembered  that  if 
he  did  this  it  would  be  usurping 
some  of  the  authority  over  his  sister 
which  he  had  formally  vested  in 
Mrs.  Lyon.  In  his  heart  he  called 
that  lady  a  weak-minded,  unreason- 
ing, injudicious  simpleton,  for  her 


270 


Playing  for  Ilijh  Slakes. 


ready  nocoptance  of  the  invitation; 
and  tliL'  lull  foroo  of  liis  own  tnins- 
paront  folly  in  Imvjnp  }^ivtn  Iut  tlio 
reins  canio  HoihHii^^  in  u])()n  Ins 
mind.  But  for  tlio  time,  at  least,  lio 
wivs  lioiind  to  j>Inek  what  he  had 
planted,  liitlerly  as  it  i)ricked  him. 
The  authority  he  had  vested  in  a 
foolish  woman  must  l>o  njilicld  by 
him  for  his  own  eredit'.s  sake,  until 
Blanclio  married  him  or  marred  liiui 
by  marr\  ing  some  one  else.  IIo  was 
quite  re.solveil  now  nothing  but  her 
own  will  should  stand  l)otween 
them.  So,  out  of  consideration  for 
hi.s  own  reputation  for  consi.stency, 
Mgar  Talltot  placed  no  obstruction 
in  their  path  to  the  studio  the  fol- 
lowing day.  Neverthele.ss  they  did 
not  reach  it  until  an  hour  after  the 
appointed  time,  divers  unforeseen 
accidents  and  events  having  oc- 
curred to  delay  them. 

In  the  first  })lace,  Mrs.  Lyon  had 
been  smitten  with  a  sudden  doubt 
as  to  the  ])errcct  propriety  of  taking 
two  young  girls  to  i^eo  two  young 
men.  Had  she  made  known  this 
doubt  to  Edgar  Tall)ot  he  would 
only  too  gladly  have  strengtlieind 
it  into  a  dtcision  against  the  tiij). 
But  one  of  tho.sc  faint  instincts  witti 
which  Mrs.  Lyon  was  enrlowed  in 
place  of  rea.soning  powers  saved  her 
from  doing  the  very  thing  that 
Would  have  boon  most  pleasing  to 
the  man  she  desired  to  plea.<:e,  and 
most  distasteful  to  her  daughter. 
She  argued,  sagaciously  enough, 
tiiat  if  she  seemed  to  distrust  her- 
self and  her  own  force  of  discri- 
mination, that  Mr.  Talbot  would 
very  prolmbly  go  and  do  likewi.^o. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  told  herself 
that  '  two  heads  were  Injtter  than 
one,'  and  lilanehe's  being  the  only 
available  head  for  the  service,  Mrs. 
liyon  went  anil  not  exactly  con- 
Kulttd  her  dauglitcr,  but  grew  cou- 
veri^ational  about  the  dilliculty. 

'  One  really  hardly  knows  what 
to  do,  when  there  are  so  many  to 
think  alK)ut,'  Mrs.  Lyon  commenced, 
going  into  I'lanrlie's  rotm  just  as 
that  young  laily  had  finished  array- 
ing herself  for  the  ex|H.(lifion.  It 
was  half-|a^t  one,  ami  witliin  Miss 
Lyon's  memory  her  motlur  liiiil 
never  achieved  the  tiusiest  toilet  in 
less  than  an  hour. 


Blanche  looked  round  carelessly, 
and  saw  tliut  Mrs.  Lyon  had  not  so 
much  as  untied  her  cap  towards 
getting  into  her  bonnet,  also  that 
slio  had  a  look  of  K-iiig  what  she 
her.self teriiiod  '  tlustcnd.' 

'  What  is  yonrdilliculty,  mother?' 

'  Why,  I  am  not  (]uite  sure  that 
I  .SCO  the  gooil  of  our  going  to  Mr. 
Bathurst's  hon.se.' 

'It  is  almost  a  pity  that  you  did 
not  say  so  Ixforo,'  B'amihe  replied, 
quietly.  '  Mis.s  Talbot  is  in  the 
drawing-room,  dressed,  and  waiting 
for  you.' 

'  There  it  is,' Mrs.  Lyon  answered, 
triumphantly,  lookiuL'  round  ap- 
pealingly  at  the  corner  of  the  room 
as  if  she  were  requesting  it  to  take 
notice  of  the  manifold  oi)staclcs  that 
imjjedcd  her  progress  through  the 
world — 'there  it  is!  one  never  can 
do  what  one  feels  one  ought  to  do 
when  one  has  to  think  for  so  many 
people.' 

Blanche  began  moving  some  of  the 
scent-bottles  on  the  dressing-table. 
It  was  a  habit  of  hers  to  give  her 
hands  abundant  em])IoynRnt  when- 
ever Mrs.  Lyon  laundied  iido  the 
illustrative  style  of  argument  and 
spoke  of  herself  as  'one.'  She  was 
always  hard  to  follow  on  such  occa- 
sions; she  was  specially  hard  to 
follow  now. 

'  Don't  let  mo  add  to  your  difli- 
cnlties,  motlier,'  Blanche  said,  pa- 
tiently, after  a  few  moment.s'  pause. 
Her  heart— no,  but  her  fancy — was 
very  much  set  upon  this  visit  to 
the  studio.  Still  the  game  was  not 
worth  the  candle. 

'  I  think  you  might  let  me  speak 
of  them,  Blanche,  without  going  off 
at  a  tangent  in  that  way.'  j\lrs.  Lyon 
u.sed  the  tone  of  oppressed  re(;titude 
— a  tone  that  is  very  hard  to  h<ar 
when  the  luarur  knows  very  well 
that  there  is  neither  oppression  nor 
rectitude  in  the  ca.^e.  The  scent- 
iKittks  an<l  one  or  two  other  trifle-s 
were  moved  with  celerity  now;  and 
Blanche  sought  to  check  her  rising 
anger  by  s|)ecidating  as  to  whether 
she  should  ever  seem  a  wearisome, 
unrea.soning  woman,  and  wliet'ncr 
she  should  ever  come  to  consider 
lite  insulliciently  sto-ked  with  real 
trials,  and  so  fall  to  the  manufiictnro 
of   sham   ones   for   the    stu  pi  tying 


Playing  for  High  Slakes. 


271 


of   herself,  and  the   saddeniug  of 
others. 

While  Blanche  pondered  on  these 
pos!^il)ilitics  Mrs.  Lyon  lapsed  from 
the  loftily  injured  into  the  familiarly 
curious  tone. 

'  I  was  going  to  say  when  you 
went  off  at  a  tangent'  (this  last,  as 
will  be  seen,  was  a  favourite  form  of 
expression  of  the  worthy  lady's,  who 
affected  it  partly  because  she  had 
heard  her  mother  use  it,  partly  be- 
cause it  had  always  irritated  her 
husband;  and  chiefly  because  she 
was  hopelessly  in  the  dark  as  to 
any  meaning  it  might  possibly  have), 
'  I  was  going  to  say  when  you  went 
off  at  a  tangent  in  that  way,  Blanche, 
that  I  think  Miss  Talbot  is  a  little 
too  anxious  to  go  and  look  at  the 
pictures.  Pictures,  indeed!  stuff 
and  nonsense.' 

'  Rather  premature  to  describe 
them  so  before  you  have  seen  them.' 

'  Which  so  ?  What  ?'  Mrs.  Lyon 
asked,  lazily ;  and  then,  on  Blanche 
curtly  replying,  '  The  pictures,' 
Mrs.  Lyon  proceeded  to  set  forth 
a  lengthy  statement  as  to  how  she 
had  not  meant  them,  and  how  if 
she  had  meant  them,  perhaps 
Blanche  would  find  when  she  had 
arrived  at  her  (Mrs.  Lyon's)  age  that 
if  she  had  done  so  it  would  not  be 
anything  so  very  foolish  and  ridi- 
culous as  she  was  sorry  and  grieved 
to  see  Blanche  (like  her  poor  dear 
father)  chose  to  think  everything 
that  did  not  fall  in  with  her  views. 
When  the  act  of  accusation  was 
read  down  to  this  point  Mrs.  Lyon 
grew  a  little  out  of  breath ;  and 
Blanche  (feeling  very  hopeless  about 
reaching  the  studio  now)  gently 
protested  that,  as  she  had  not  given 
voice  to  any  particular  views,  there 
was  a  shade  of  iu justice  in  her 
mother  saying  that  she  (Blanche) 
was  deriding  that  which  did  not 
meet  them. 

'  But  there,  I  suppose  I  must  go,' 
Mrs.  Lyon  observed,  irrelevantly, 
and  with  an  air  of  martyrdom,  when 
Blanche  ceased  speaking.  The 
well-meaning  but  irritating-man- 
nered woman  was  in  reality  pleased 
and  feebly  excited  at  the  prospect 
ot  the  little  expedition,  which  par- 
took of  the  nature  of  dissii)ation. 
She  was  pleased  at  the  prospect; 


she  would  havo  been  disappointed 
with  the  keen,  fresh  disappoint- 
ment of  inexperience  if  the  ])lan  had 
come  to  nothing.  Yet,  withal,  she 
could  not  refrain  from  doubting 
and  demurring  about  it,  in  the  hope 
of  giving  it  additional  importance. 

'  There!  I  suppose  I  must  go,* 
she  reiterated,  as  Blanche  main- 
tained the  dead  silence  which  is 
the  sole  safeguard  such  natures  as 
hers  have  against  domestic  broils. 
Then  Mrs.  Lyon  made  a  little  busi- 
ness of  untying  her  cap,  and  finally 
conveyed  herself  out  of  the  room 
with  almost  a  smile  on  her  face,  and 
with  the  proud  conviction  at  her 
heart  that  she  had  deported  herself 
as  became  the  guiding  star  and 
responsible  person  of  the  Talbot 
household. 

The  girl  she  had  left  stood  mo- 
tionless for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
lifted  her  head  suddenly,  and  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass.  '  What  am 
I?  morally  or  mentally  wanting, 
that  I  let  that  sort  of  thing  goad 
me  into  this,'  she  asked,  as  she 
gazed  at  her  crimson  cheeks  and 
angry  eyes  ;  '  it's  only  a  surface  ill- 
humour,  only  a  habit  of  querulous- 
uess,  only  the  result  of  long  ytars  of 
anxiety,  care,  and  disappointment  on 
an  originally  mild,  ductile  nature ; 
but  it's  detestable  to  me.' 

The  storm  broke  as  she  uttered 
the  words  '  detestable  to  me,'  and 
she  shivered  from  head  to  foot  with 
the  force  of  her  own  fury.  For  a 
minute  she  leant  back  against  the 
bed-post,  putting  her  hand  up  to 
the  eyes  that  were  blinded  by  the 
hot  feeling  which  she  would  not 
suffer  to  well  away  in  tears.  There 
then  came  to  her  aid  the  reflection 
that  tliis  was  a  burden  that  must 
be  borne ;  that  it  was  in  reality 
trifling  ('  I'd  prefer  a  big  woe,  for  all 
that,'  she  thought),  and  that,  after 
all,  other  people  endured  wort-e 
things !  So  the  crimson  ebbed  away 
from  her  cheeks,  and  the  angry  light 
faded  from  her  eyes ;  and  she  was 
presently  the  brilliant,  beautiful, 
light-hearted  Miss  Lyon  once  more, 
as  she  made  her  way  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, inducting  herself  into  a 
pair  of  silver  grey  gloves  as  she 
walked. 

Miss  Talbot  was  sitting  there,  bon- 


272 


Playing  for  High  Slnket. 


netted  and  clocked,  tryinj?  to  read, 
and  bt'tniyiiip,  in  tlio  nervous  start 
sho  pxvo  anil  tried  to  cover  as 
Blanche  eutertd.  a  hardly -sulxlued 
iiupatitnott,  ami  a  consciousness  of 
its  not  Kint:;  well  to  iVel  the  samo, 
that  told  its  own  talo  to  lier  sibter- 
woman. 

*  I  thouprlit — I  hoped  it  va^  Mrs. 
Lyon,'  she  began,  putting  lier  book 
down  as  f-lio  spoko;  and  Blanche 
saw— or  fauciid  she  saw,  which 
conies  to  the  same  thing— that  thero 
was  ever  so  little  of  the  air  of  con- 
scions  Enjicriority  of  ])Iaco  in  the 
way  M'ss  Tall)ot  held  her  head  up, 
and  Btenieil  to  demand  an  explana- 
tion. For  an  instant  she  hesitated 
as  to  whether  or  not  ehe  should  give 
it.  Then — perhaps  she  sympathized 
with  the  impatience  in  some  degree 
— she  said  — 

'  You  must  win  your  brotlicr's 
forgiveness  for  mamma.  Miss  Talbot. 
The  position  is  eg  new  to  her  that 
she  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  her 
responsibility  out  of  all  sense  of 
punctuality.' 

Beatrix  was  poftened.  '  i\Iy  bro- 
ther, Edgar,  would  forgive  hir 
readily  enough  if  ]Mrs.  Lyon  fonglit 
off  going  idtogether,  I  believe,'  she 
said,  laughing.  Then  a  half  desire 
to  make  a  half  confidante  arose,  and 
was  checked,  and  ro.sc  again,  and 
finally  was  softly  encouia^jed  forth 
by  Blanche. 

'  I  di<ln't  mean  that  brother.  Does 
not  Mr.  Talbot— I  mean  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Talbot  cares  much  for 
ai"t,  does  he  ?' 

Beatrix  shook  her  head.  '  Not 
much.  lie  said  last  ni^ht  to  me 
that  he  could  cxi.st  till  !May  without 
seeing  the  pictures,  and  Kliouid  have 
thought  1  could  do  the  same.' 

•  lie  dofis  not  care  much  for  art  or 
for  artists,  dues  ho?'  Blanche  con- 
tinued. 

'  Our  own  brother  Tiionel  is  one, 
you  know,*  Trixy  said,  as  if  it 
would  have  lH;en  tlio  most  nuluial 
thing  in  the  world  for  B  anclie  to 
have  forgotten  that  fact,  though 
Lionel's  picture  was  nominally  one 
of  the  princi|)al  objects  of  the  con- 
template visit. 

'  Yts.  I  know.'MissLyonanfiwered, 
hurriedly  ;  '  but  I  thoni;ht ' 

'Of  course  you  could  not  think 


of  liionel  as  en  eh  an  artist  ns  Mr. 
Batliurst,  your  cou^iu.'  Trixy  iiitcr- 
rujUeil,  in  a  tone  that  wtxs  im  ant 
to  Imj  apologetic  for  Licme!.  Before 
Blanche  could  retort,  '1  should  think 
not,'  Mrs.  Lyon  came  in,  and  the  two 
girls  wore  paved  froui  further  mis- 
iinderstiinding — for  the  time 

Being  already  late  for  their  nj> 
pointmeiit  wheu  they  starte<l,  it  was 
only  in  the  order  of  thimjs  that  tluy 
should  l>c«  still  more  delayed  on  their 
way.  j\lrs.  L>on  had  a  i^et  theory 
about  short  cuts.  It  was  a  theory 
that  was  not  based  upon  measure- 
ment, or  reason,  or  anything  tan- 
gil)le,  but  upon  the  slightly  illogical 
sentence  that  '  short  cuts  are  often 
the  longest.'  So  tliis  day,  when  I^Iiss 
Talbot  gave  Jlr.  Bathurst's  address, 
and  added,  '  Through  the  Park  and 
out  at  the  Victoria  Gate,'  Mrs.  ].iyon 
interpolated,  with  considerable  ear- 
nestness, '  /  should  s;iy  Park  Lane.' 

'  Better  through  the  Park,'  lUanche 
said,  quickly,  settling  ht-rself  back  in 
her  seat,  and  trying  to  catch  i\Iis3 
Talbot's  eye,  and  telegrajih  some- 
thing equivalent  to  '  Stand  to  your 
guns'  to  her.  Bat  the  worthy  in- 
tention was  defeated ;  Aliss  Talbot 
looked  at  her  chaperoue  and  re- 
peated, hesitatingly — 

'Through  Park  Lane  did  you 
say ':" 

'  Yes,  certainly,  /  should  say.' 
I\Irs.  I>yon  spoke  atTably,  as  l)ccamo 
one  who  was  victorious,  and  alwut 
the  beneficial  effects  of  whos^e  victory 
there  could  be  no  sane  doubt.  Ac- 
cordingly the  order  was  given,  and 
they  drove  through  Park  Lane,  or 
rather  did  not  drive  through,  but 
got  into  a  block,  and  passed  an  un- 
eventful twtnty  minutes  in  looking 
out  through  the  carriage  windows  at 
one  of  PiiHdord's  van.s,  which  jxriod 
of  quiescence  crushed  ]Mis.  L\oii 
into  an  abject  frame  of  ujind,  and 
rcn<lered  her  specially  alive  to  the 
vanity  of  all  earthly  joys  and  the 
transitory  nature  of  all  triumphs. 

'  Whenever  one  does  anything  for 
the  best,  one  is  sure  to  HikI  that  one 
had  lietter  have  let  things  go  their 
own  way,'  she  remarke  I,  by  way  of 
explanation,  when  at  last  they 
reached  Mr.  Bathurst's  house,  and 
the  two  young  men  came  from  the 
studio  to  meet  them  with  laughing 


Plaijingfor  High  StaJcrs. 


273 


reproaches  for  their  being  so  lafe. 
And  somehow  or  other  both  girls  felt 
the  explanation  to  be  all-sufficient, 
and  the  block  in  Park  Lane  a  face- 
tious trifle,  and  everything  as  plea- 
pant  as  possible,  and  incapable  of 
improvement. 

She  would  have  sought  to  banish 
or  explain  awny  the  lact,  if  it  had 
been  put  before  her  in  so  many 
•words ;  but  it  was  a  fact  that  Blanche 
Lyon  lad  a  better  feeling  of  equality 
with  these  people  with  whom  she 
had  been  com()elIed  to  come  and 
live  in  a  dependent  position  when 
she  and  they  were  in  the  society  of 
Frank  Bathurst,  her  cousin.  She 
was  grateful  to  tlie  good-tempered, 
good-looking,  educated,  rich  gentle- 
man for  being  her  relation.  Down 
at  the  Grange,  where  she  had  been 
as  kindly,  conscientiously,  and  con- 
siderately treated  as  any  girl  (or,  at 
any  rate,  any  girl  who  is  a  gover- 
ntss)  can  be,  she  had  still  been 
aware  that  she  was  so  treated  by  an 
effort — a  tiny  and  admirably  con- 
cealed one,  certainly,  but  still  an 
effort.  Blanche  Lyon  was  a  girl  to 
the  full  as  practical  and  sensible  as 
she  was  prcjudaud  sensitive;  and  so, 
though  slie  recognized  this  fact,  she 
at  the  same  time  recognized  the  im- 
possibility of  its  being  other  than  it 
was.  The  woman  who  stands  alone, 
•with  no  apparent  relations,  whose 
friends  may  be  legion,  but  are  invi- 
sible, cannot,  and  cannot  expect  to 
be  treated  precisely  in  the  same  way 
as  her  well- surrounded  compeers. 
It  is  inevitable  that  tliere  should  be 
little  distinctions  ;  and  far  more  in- 
justice is  awarded  (in  print)  to  the 
employers  than  to  the  employed. 
The  genus  '  Governess '  has  been 
idealized  by  ill-usage,  in  tiction,  into 
a  very  false  position.  The  attempt 
has  been  made  to  teach  thousands  of 
yo'ung  women,  who  would  have  ac- 
cepted obscurity  as  their  birthright 
haid  they  remained  in  their  fathers' 
homes,  to  gird  against  it  as  a  great 
wrong  when  they  find  it  their  por- 
i  tions  in  the  homes  of  people  who 
reward  them  m(a'e  or  less  liberally 
for  educating  their  (the  people's) 
children.  Blanche  Lyon  was  not  one 
of  tliis  order.  She  was  too  keenly 
alive  to  the  perfect  propriety  of  the 
mighty  jsystem  of  give  and  take  to 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIU. 


have  over  weakly  wished  to  be  looked 
upon  as  other  than  she  wns,  and  was 
remunerated  for  being.  Neverthe- 
less, though  she  had  never  I'clt  the 
situation  of  the  past  to  be  other 
than  perfectly  natural  and  becom- 
ing, she  did  feel  the  superiority  of 
that  of  the  present.  It  was  pleasant 
to  be  known  as  the  cousin  of  a  man 
of  considerable  mark  in  the  set  in 
which,  however  good  their  will,  she 
still  must  be  regarded  as  not  quite 
one  of  them.  It  was  pleasunt  to 
have  him  gladly  and  gallantly  put- 
ting forward  the  fact  of  this  rela- 
tionship as  a  thing  of  which  he  had 
to  be  proud.  It  was  pleasanter  to 
know  that  she  was  not  regarded  any 
more  as  an  isolated  being,  but  rather 
as  the  most  important  link  in  the 
great  chain  of  events  which  had 
made  Frank  Bathurst  what  he  was. 
The  old  talk  with  her  father,  held  on 
the  subject  of  old  Mr.  Lyon's  offer, 
came  back  vividly  to  her  mind  as 
she  came  into  the  house  of  '  Bath- 
nrst's  boy,'  and  knew  him  for  the 
motive-power  of  that  meeting. 

She  could  but  rejoice  in  him  for 
being  what  he  was,  and  (Iieing  her- 
self) she  could  but  rejoice  and  be 
glad  in  him  openly.  The  position 
can  readily  be  realized.  She  liked 
him  for  being  what  he  was,  and  she 
liked  him  the  better  for  being  it 
partly  through  her  agency.  In  her 
rash,  impulsive,  chivalrous,  unad- 
vised girliirhness,  she  had  rejected 
the  prospect  which  Frank  had  real- 
ized. More  of  the  old  conversation 
floated'  back  in  scraps.  She  had  said 
perhaps  '  Bathurst's  boy  might  take 
a  fancy  to  her,'  and  her  father  had 
said  that  'more  improbable  things 
occurred  frequently.'  But,  though 
she  remembered  this,  no  hope  of  its 
being  the  case  now  brightened  the 
sunshine  which  seemed  to  radiate 
from  his  presence,  and  warm  her 
into  clo.'-er  relationship  with  him.  It 
gladdened  her  to  her  soul's  core 
that  he  should  seem  taken,  dazzled, 
fond  of  her.  He  was  too  bright  and 
bonnie  for  the  bright  bonnie  woman 
who  had  unconsciously  helped  to 
shape  his  good  fortune,  not  to  be  in- 
terested in  his  interest  for  her. 

While  as  for  him,  he  was  a  man 
■with  a  quick  eye  for  the  beautilu!, 
with  a  keen  appreciation  for  the 


rt 


Playing  for  Hiijh  Slnh'Ht 


synipatlictiV,  with  a  cntholicity  of 
sentmii'nt  rcspwtinp  the  lovatilo, 
and,  ns  I.ioiu'l  Tall)ot  lia<l  said,  with 
the  perms  of  inconstancy  in  him. 
He  ha-l  liad  the  liahit  of  lovinc;  all 
that  was  lovely  from  his  hoyliood, 
and  the  hahit  had  pot  iiim  into  more 
than  one  hitterly-Iamented  f-cra]ie. 
lie  vras  musical,  iioetical,  artistic, 
ai>tlietic  alfopother.  It  w;\s  bis  fato 
to  get  very  fond  very  oHen.  It  was 
his  fancy  to  he  tonchingly  gentle  to 
every  jiair  of  beautiful  eyes  and  soft 
liands  that  respectively  brightened 
and  smoothed  liis  jmth.  His  alTec- 
tions  were  not  very  deep;  on  the 
coiilniry,  they  were  shallow,  Imt 
they  were  marvellously  wide.  His 
voice  always  took  a  tender  tone,  his 
eyes  always  had  a  loving  look  in 
them  wlien  he  addressed  a  young 
and  pretty  woman.  It  was  as  na- 
tural to  him  that  it  should  he  so 
as  that  he  should  gather  a  rose  with 
a  careful  hand,  or  ride  a  fine-mouthed 
horse  with  a  light  rein.  He  was  no 
pay  deceiver.  His  adoration  was 
invariaMy  thoroiighly  meant  as  long 
as  it  lasted.  His  sweet  words  never 
knew  a  fal.se  ring.  His  likings  did 
not  always  die  away  when  the  object 
disappeared :  they  would  lay  in 
alMyancej  and  would  1k3  ready  to 
spring  up  greenly  again  when  the 
object  returned  And,  with  all  this 
fickleness aliout  them, he  still  thought 
well  of  women,  believed  in  them  as 
in  beings  who  were  infinitely  purer 
and  better  than  himself.  It  was  a 
great  element  in  liis  love  that  it 
never  turned  to  contempt.  It  waned 
and  went  to  sleep,  but  it  never  woke 
up  disgust(d  with  that  it  had  for- 
n)erly  delighted  in ;  and  this  must  be 
added  in  its  fnvour,  that  hitherto  it 
had  never  fallen  npou  unworthy 
objects. 

These  two  young  women,  lioth 
lieautiful,  loth  well  inclined  to  him, 
neither  of  whom  he  had  known  a 
month  ago,  were  great  .sources  of 
joy  to  him  just  now.  He  was  not  a 
man  to  ranki;  plans  and  lay  schemes. 
He  took  things  as  they  came,  and 
briglitene<l  them  gencr.iUy  by  his 
own  way  of  looking  at  them.  But 
Trixy  TallH)t  and  iJiancho  Lyon 
needetl  no  a<lventitious  l>righteninp; 
without  it  they  dazzled  him  <iuito 
sufficiently. 


It  was  liard  to  say  which  of  (he 
two  young  men  was  the  ma^itir  of 
the  hoU.-e,  so  ea(  h  girl  had  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  feeling  tiiat  shf  was  the 
guest  of  a  brother  or  a  cousin  espe- 
cially. There  was  a  brief  di.scussion 
— a  good-huiiioured  dii-sension  as  to 
which  shoulil  be  done  honour  to 
first,  the  pictures  or  the  luncheon. 
The  first  place  was  given  to  the 
latter  eventually;  and  Blanche  sat 
next  to  Frank  Hat  hurst,  and  was 
made  much  of  by  him,  because  she 
ma<le  it  easy  for  him  to  make  much 
of  her,  by  being  entirely  unfettered 
in  her  own  manners;  and  Trixy's 
sparkling  wine  might  have  1x!en  ver- 
juice in  conseipience. 

For  it  is  a  fact  that  Miss  Talbot 
was   very  much   in   love  with  the 
one  who  acted  so  thoroughly  up  to 
the   poet's  advice   to  young  men, 
'Gather  ye  roses  while  ye  may;' 
and  I,  as  her   historian,  refu.se  to 
treat  it  as  essential  to  the  art  wliich 
is  placing  her  before  you,  that  good 
and   unas.sailable    rea.sons   for    the 
love  be  given.     Th<.'y  are  not  given 
in  real  life;  they  are  not  asked  for. 
A  shallow  substitute  for  the  '  rea.son 
why  '  is  offered  occasionally  by  well- 
meaning  people,  who  like  to  explain 
natural  laws  without  in  the  faintest 
degree  compreheTuhng   their  deep 
eignilicance.       When     a    marriage 
comes   off,  and  all   looks  fair  and 
smooth    l)cforo     the    newly-united 
pair,  excellent -sounding  .solutions 
of  th.e   mystery   of  their  love  are 
freely  offered.     They  were  born  in 
the  .same  county  ;  or  they  both  had 
a  well-marked    preference   for  the 
melodrama  over  the   burlesque  of 
life;  or  they  lK)th   liked  the   ."^amo 
books,  or  parson,  or  made-dishes,  or 
some    other  admirable   n  a-on    for 
wediling.     But  no  one  ever  stands 
forth  as  champion  fortln  sufliciency 
of  the  causes  which  brought  al>out 
the  love  l)etwe(n  people  who  make 
each  other  miserable  by  falling  away 
lieforo    marriage.      Tiio    event    is 
allowed  to  make  all  the  difTerence; 
and  that  is  wisdom  and  discretion  if 
the  ring  Ik)  won,  which  ia  forward 
folly  if  it  Ikj  not. 

Therefore,  for  a  wliilc,  Trixy  Tal- 
bot must  Rtan  1  accused  of  the  latter 
offence ;  for,  without  having  any 
excellent  reasons  to  give,  she  had 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


276 


found  Frank  Bathnrst's  winning 
words  and  looks  irrejsistihle  to  the 
point  of  falling  in  lovo  with  him. 
Desperately  in  love— so  desperately 
that  all  her  sweet  armour  of  self- 
possession  and  affected  unconscious- 
ness of  his  admiration  failed  her. 
She  hung  upon  his  accents  in  a  way 
that  made  her  seem  absent  and 
stupid ;  she  thrilled  to  the  touch  of 
his  hand  in  a  way  that  made  her 
afraid  to  resign  hers  to  his  clasp 
when  others  were  by ;  she  wearied 
for  his  words  when  he  was  silent, 
for  his  meaning  when  he  spoke; 
she  was  vaguely  jealous  of  every 
unknown  woman  upon  whom  his 
soft  glances  might  have  fallen  in 
the  past ;  she  was  paiafully,  pitiably 
alive  to  the  tact  of  his  having  taken 
no  greater  trouble  to  make  her  these 
things  than  he  took  probably  with 
every  woman  who  pleased  his  taste. 
She  was  keenly  conscious  of  having 
a  formidable  rival  in  Blanche,  if 
Blanche  chose  to  rival  her;  and 
how  could  Blanche  '  but  choose, 
with  such  cause  for  rivalry '?'  she 
asked  herself,  in  her  impassioned 
infatuation.  In  fact,  she  was  en- 
tirely in  love,  and  so  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. She  felt  sick  under  all  the 
sudden  alternations  of  unfounded 
hopes  and  despairs  which  assailed 
her,  as  Frank  Bathurst  was  gallant 
and  gay  to  herself  or  to  his  beauti- 
ful cousin.  She  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  the  parting  that  would 
inevitably  come  when  they  had 
looked  at  the  pictures  and  it  would 
be  time  to  go  home  to  dinner.  She 
was  feverishly  impatient  for  a  new 
move  to  be  made  every  moment. 
Her  heart  went  up  absurdly  high 
when  he  bent  down  to  lament  her 
lack  of  appetite  in  low  tones,  coming 
round  to  the  back  of  her  chair  to  do 
it,  and  so  seeming  to  make  her  com- 
fort peculiarly  his  own.  It  (her 
heart)  went  down,  equally  without 
good  cause,  when  he  left  her  and 
returned  to  his  place  by  Blanche; 
for  Miss  Lyon's  hand  was  on  the 
table,  twirling  a  rose  about,  and  the 
handsome  young  host  put  his  own 
upon  it  gently,  as  he  impressively 
offered  his  cousin  something  that 
she  did  not  want.  And  Blanche, 
whose  hand  stayed  steady  under 
the  touch,  Blanche,  whose  brilliant 


eyes  met  the  very  warmly  admiring 
glance  of  his  quite  coolly,  Blanche, 
who  was  so  little  affected  by  his 
low  tones  as  to  answer  them  in  loud 
ones, — became,  despite  her  beauty, 
a  horrible  object  in  poor  Trixy 
Talbot's  eyes — those  sweet  violet 
eyes  that  ached  when  Mr.  Frank 
Bathurst  used  little  seductive  tones 
and  airs  and  gestures  in  commend- 
ing the  claret  to  the  new  btauty,  to 
whom  it  was  meet  and  right  and 
his  bounden  duty  to  show  such 
homage,  since  she  was  his  cousin. 

Not  that  he  was  at  all  off"  with 
the  comparatively  old  love  whose 
figure  he  had  sketched  in  for 
'  Venus '  in  the  picture,  the  second 
subject  from  '  Tannhiiuser,'  which 
had  rather  put  the  first  in  the  back- 
ground. He  liked  being  sweet  to 
them  both ;  be  would  have  been 
amiably  charmed  by  their  both 
being  sweet  to  him  in  return.  He 
was  gifted  with  such  a  mighty  fund 
of  fondness  that  he  could  not  resist 
nourishing  all  the  attractive  reci- 
pients of  the  quality  who  came  in 
his  way.  It  came  so  easy  to  him  to 
love,  to  be  very  much  fascinated, 
and  be  just  a  little  thrown  out  of 
gear,  and  even  a  little  sleepless 
about  more  than  one  woman  at  a 
time,  that  he  gave  no  thought  to 
Miss  Talbot  being  in  the  least  un- 
comfortable, or  having  cause  to  be 
so.  There  had  been  soft  pleasure 
to  him  in  feeling  sure  that  she  had 
found  it  pleasant  to  have  him  stand- 
ing by  her  chair,  anxious  to  tend 
upon  her,  earnest  in  waiting  on  her. 
There  had  been  equally  soft  pleasure 
to  him  in  taking  Blanche's  small 
hand  in  his,  when  the  occasion 
scarcely  called  for  the  act ;  in  feeling 
how  slender  and  smooth  it  was,  and 
how  delicate  it  looked  resting  there 
in  his  clasp ;  and,  as  he  never 
denied  himself  any  pleasure  that 
might  be  his  harmlessly,  he  took 
these,  and  enjoyed,  and  was  grateful 
for  them,  like  the  sinless  sensualist 
he  was.  And  Trixy  Talbot  saw 
that  he  did  the  one  and  was  the 
other,audstill  loved  him  desperately. 

It  has  been  brought  as  a  reproach 
against  modern  fiction  that  a  good 
deal  of  the  action  takes  place  at, 
and  a  good  deal  of  the  interest  is 
made  to  centre  in,  the  dinner- table. 

*:  T    2 


276 


Playing  for  High  Staket, 


InfliefrtPeoftliisropron('h,it  must  bo 
(Jicltue*!  that  no  so'juestt  iliI  svlvrin 
glailo,  no  nuMJn-li^'htoiI  catlnilnil 
cloisters,  no  whirlinp  waltz,  no 
nnniW'r  of  villiigo  raniMcs  with 
'  tlie  ol'iVct' in  tlio  cause  of  '  Ixjing 
pnoil  to  the  {>oor,'onn  ripn  tlie  sen- 
tiintnts  which  are  the  liricks  and 
niortiir  of  all  novels  more  swifily 
and  surely  than  does  tlio  well- 
pelected  and  carefidly-furnislud  hos- 
pitable i>oard.  People  ore  apt  to 
get  very  near  to  each  otber's  hearts 
and  ujiuds  (when  the  guests  and 
hosts  are  young,  especially);  all 
try  to  be  at  their  Ikait ;  and  it  stands 
to  rcaso»^  .-l<tt  men  and  women  at 
their  Kst  are  considerably  more 
attractive  to  one  another  than  at  any 
other  time.  Flowers  ami  wine,  and 
wit  ami  beauty,— and,  in  the  present 
case,  the  unusualnef^s  of  the  tiling, — 
ought  to  work,  and  do  work.  The 
little  party  I  have  been  dt.^cribing 
felt  that,  if  they  had  known  each 
other  from  childhood,  they  could 
not  have  known  each  other  lietter, 
or  liked  each  other  njore  than  they 
did  under  existing  circumstances, 
when  they  rose  at  length  to  go 
and  look  at  the  pictures. 

'  By  the  way,  I  left  my  model 
when  I  came  to  meet  you,'  Frank 
Batluust  .said  to  Mi.=s  I.} on,  as, 
with  her  l)y  his  side,  he  led  the  way 
to  his  stu(lio.  Then  ho  wt  nt  on  to 
tell  her  what  a  wonderful  effect 
Lionel  had  succeeded  in  producing 
with  the  re  prose  n  tat  ion  of  waves 
alone.  '  lie's  by  way  of  being  a 
genius :  there's  not  a  boat,  or  a 
gull,  or  a  lighthouse,  or  anything 
but  water  on  his  canvas;  and  ttill 
you  g<t  pulled  \ip  lx;fore  it.' 

When  ho  paid  that  tribute  to  his 
friend's  tahnt,  Blanche  felt  that 
there  must  Ik)  an  immense  d<al  in 
Frank  I'-atliurst.  She  rendered  up 
her  hand  to  him  with  delightful 
readintHs,  as  ho  ofTered  to  help  her 
over  the  threshold,  and  flu  n  down 
the  flight  of  steps  which  cauio  l)o- 
twct-n  the  back  and  front  i»art  of 
his  studio;  and  she  spoke  out  her 
admiration  for  his  'Battle  of  the 
Bards'  with  hearty  eloquence  when 
they  pauwMl  l>ffon;  it. 

'  Now  I  want  to  show  Miss  Talliot 
something,'  ho  cxflaiuied,  impa- 
ticDtly,  as  ho  taw  Beatrix  walking 


on  with  lier  brother;  '  I  hope  that 
fellow  won't  i)oint  it  out  to  her 
first.' 

'  Go  and  stop  his  doing  so,' 
Blanche  paid,  quickly.  And  3Ir. 
]{athurst  took  her  advice;  and 
presently  Li  mel  Talbot  came  and 
joine<l  ^liss  Lyon,  leaving  his  sister 
very  happy  by  the  act. 

'There  is  a  good  deal  of  spirit 
in  that,'  Blanche  said,  waving  her 
hanil  at  largo  towards  the  huge 
canvas  whereon  '  Tannlninsor '  was 
depicted,  in  the  midst  of  a  well- 
dressed  mob,  giving  vent  to  the 
defiance — 

'Grim  bards  of  lovo  who  nnlhinK  know 
Now  (nils  the  unf^iml  tlthl  Ixawcen  us; 
Dare  as  I  (land:   to  Iliirsel  no. 

And  taste  lovo  on  tlie  lips  of  Vtnns." 

'  A  great  deal  of  spirit,'  she  re- 
peated, feeling  at  the  moment  utterly 
unable  to  offer  any  other  art  criti- 
cism. 

'  Yes,'  he  re))lied, '  I  wish  Bathurst 
would  work  at  it,  instead  of  wasting 
liis  time  on  the  other  one.' 

'  What  is  tho  other  one  ?' 

'  Come  and  see  it.' 

'  No,  no,"  she  said,  as  she  glanced 
in  tho  direction  ho  would  have 
taken,  and  saw  her  mother  in  mid- 
distance,  and  Miss  Talbot  and  Mr. 
Bathurst  further  on  :  *  I  want  to  see 
yours  first.' 

'  Then  come  and  look  at  it.'  And 
lie  led  her  to  tho  oflier  end  of  the 
long  studio;  and  they  stood  alone 
before  the  waves  that  had  .steeped 
his  mind  in  admiration  for  their 
wild  beauty  long  ago  on  the  Cornish 
coast. 

She  stood  in  silence  for  awhile, 
not  only  averse  to,  but  incapable 
now  of  ofTering  an  opinion,  respect- 
ing tho  jtainfing  tho  more  for  his 
being  tho  painter  of  it,  and  the 
painter  tho  more  for  tho  painting 
Ixjing  his.  J.etting  her  ailininition 
for  lK)th  react  upon  each  other,  in 
fact,  with  a  subtlety  that  women 
ofttn  employ  in  like  casts. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  call  it  ?' 
she  asked,  at  length,  abrui)tly. 

'  Frank  Hathurst  suggests  as  a 
motto  for  tho  Acadtniy  catalogue, 
"  What  are  tho  wild  waves  .saying?" 
do  you  like  it?' 

'  Yes— were  you  alone  when  you 
got  to  lovo  those  waves?' 


l)rnwii  hv   W.  Small. | 

"QUITE   ALONE." 
If  Ik-  Im.l  r.|,..at...l  ih..  wonU  a  .1.,...,,  tn,,,-,.  ,|,..  u„„|,|   „,„  |„.v..  I,....n  sati,.t..,|  wmI,  ihe 


"iiikI  III'  llii'in." 


[Sec  ••  I'layiiii;  f«r  rflLTJi  .Stakrs. 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


277 


'  Quite  alone,'  he  replied ;  and 
then  as  she  ahuost  seemed  to  sigh 
in  relief  as  she  looked  up  at  him, 
he  repeated  more  emphatically  still, 
'  Quite  alone.' 

If  he  had  repeated  the  words  a 
dozen  times  she  would  not  have 
been  satiated  with  the  sound  of 
them,  hut  would  have  cried  in  her 
heart,  '  That  strain  again  ?  it  hath 
a  d.ving  fall'  It  was  music  to  her, 
sweet,  full,  rich,  sufficient.  Music 
to  her,  that  assurance  he  gave  her 
that  the  wild  waves  said  nothing  to 
him  of  one  whom  he  had  loved  and 
looked  ui^on  wlieu  he  loved  and 
looked  upon  them.  She  was  quite 
contented  with  that  implied  assur- 
ance— quite  charmed  "with  the  fit- 
ness of  the  motto  — quite  satisfied 
with  what  the  '  wild  waves  were 
paying,'  and  quite  oblivious  of 
Frank  Bathurst.  Beatrix  Talbot's 
impulse  towards  Lionel  had  been 
a  true  one ;  her  brother  was  her  best 
friend. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  DAPHNE. 

There  was  a  conservatory  at  the 
garden  end  of  the  studio.  At  least 
it  had  been  a  conservatory,  but  was 
now  cleared  of  its  plants  and  occu- 
pied by  a  dais  for  the  models  to 
pose  upon.  From  one  end  of  this 
.part  of  the  studio  a  spiral  staircase 
led  up  to  an  observatory  on  the 
leads,  where  a  delightful  view,  con- 
sisting of  a  bit  of  Biiyswater  aud  a 
slice  of  Kensington  Gardens,  could 
be  had.  Up  this  staircase  the  four 
young  people  walked  after  a  time, 
leaving  Mrs.  Lyon  (who  had  been 
more  engrossed  by  the  lay  figures 
than  anything  else)  to  follow  at  her 
leisure. 

'  Story '  the  waves  had  '  none  to 
tell '  to  her.  '  Venus '  on  the  moun- 
tain made  her  uncomfortable,  and 
brought  back  all  her  doubts  as  to 
the  wisdom  of  having  come  here; 
and  the  '  spirited '  composition  of 
the  Battle  of  the  Bards  seemed  to 
her  simply  a  representation  of  an 
infernal  orgie.  But  she  took  a  calm 
pleasure  in  examining  the  magnified 
doll,  and  trying  how  its  joints 
worked;  thus  innocently  destroy- 
ing some  folds  iu  the  drapery  which 


Frank  had  spent  a  long  time  in 
arranging  tliat  morning. 

'  A  nice  room  wasted— entirely 
wasted,'  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
surveyed  the  studio.  Frank  Bath- 
urst had  been  at  considerable 
trouble  and  expense  about  this 
studio.  He  had  first  harl  two  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  thrown  into 
one,  and  then  he  had  put  up  a 
groined  and  vaulted  oak  ceiling, 
thus  spoiling  the  rooms  above  it. 
It  had  a  richly-coloured  window  at 
one  end ;  pomegraiiate-hued  curtains 
of  soft  sweeping  velvet  fell  in  full 
folds  from  ceiling  to  floor.  It  was 
enriched  with  oak  carvings,  with 
ebony  brackets  and  bronzes ;  with 
perfect  casts  from  perfest  originals, 
with  rare  old  glass,  with  a  deeply- 
embossed  shield  resting  on  some 
sort  of  stand  of  metal  in  which 
Quintia  Matsys  had  had  a  hand. 
The  sunlight,  what  there  was  of  it 
on  -that  winter's  day,  fell  upon  the 
the  floor  in  broad  ricih  masses  ;  the 
shadows  laid  in  unbroken  grand 
depths;  there  was  nothing  slight, 
nothing  pale,  nothing  puerile  about 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  Lyon  deemed  it 
very  duH. 

She  had  been  uncertain  whether 
to  go  with  them  when  they  went 
up  on  the  leads  or  to  stay  behind. 
While  revolving  the  uncertainty  in 
her  mind,  their  voices  sounded 
faintly  iu  what  seemed  the  far  dis- 
tance to  her,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
tall,  curiously-carved  screen,  drawn 
across  in  such  a  way  as  almost  to 
cut  off  a  corner  of  the  room,  caught 
her  attention.  So,  with  an  empha- 
tically-worded observation  on  the 
folly  of  people  taking  so  many  un- 
necessary steps  to  see  so  little  as 
could  be  seen  from  the  top  of  a 
house  in  Bayswater,  Mrs.  Lyon 
walked  towards  the  screen,  and  pro- 
ceed led  to  curiously  inspect  it. 

It  was  an  elaborate  piece  of  work- 
manship, morlern,  perfectly  artistic 
in  proportion,  and  delicate  in  de- 
tail. Titania,  Oberon,  aud  Puck 
wreathing  themselves  and  each 
other  in  fanciful  garlands  in  the 
centre,  and  wood  nymphs  and  satyrs 
doing  nothing  remarkable  at  the 
sides.  '  A  nicely-grained  piece  of 
wood  spoilt!'  Mrs.  Lyon  thought, 
as  she  put  her  hand  upon  it  to  see 


278 


Playing  for  Iliijh  Stdl^ee, 


whether  tlio  dimness  camo  from 
fliist  or  not  in  order  tlmt  she  niiplit 
do  a  pooil  turn  to  tho  lielpless  gen- 
tlemen who  owned  it,  \>\  ilenounoing 
the  dut<ty  jiroelivities  of  tlieir  hout^e- 
maid).  Slio  put  her  hand  upon  it; 
the  screen  turned  easily  on  u  swivel 
at  the  lightest  touch,  and  it  re- 
volve<l,  leavng  tho  corner  exposed. 
Mrs.  Lyon  uttered  a  little  cry  of 
mingled  horror  and  virtuous  satis- 
faction at  having  unearthed  tlio 
cause  of  it,  for  there,  in  a  large  arm- 
chair, her  head  thro>n  back  upon 
the  '  velvet  violet  lining,'  a  pretty 
yellow-haired  girl  lay  sleeping. 

The  girl  and  all  tho  accessories 
•were  so  pretty  that  most  penjilc 
would  have  heen  content  to  keep 
silence,  and  look  on  the  scene  as 
one  of  the  fair  sights  in  life  which, 
perfect  in  themselves,  may  l)e  suf- 
fered to  pass  by  unijuestioned. 
But  Mrs.  Lyon  liked  to  grapple  with 
difficulties  that  were  n')t  —  loved 
to  defend  what  was  not  assailed, 
deliglited  in  putting  things  straight 
before  they  were  crooked.  '  1  can 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes,'  she  ex- 
claimed, believing  them  thoroughly 
the  while,  and  unite  ready  to  do 
battle  in  the  cause  of  tlieir  trust- 
worthiness, shoukl  any  one  hint  at 
optical  delusion.  '  I  can  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes;  young  woman,  this 
is  shameless!' 

The  girl,  who  had  opened  her  eyes 
at  the  first  sound,  sat  up  at  the  litst 
words  and  suj)pressed  a  yawn.  She 
was  dres.sed  in  a  costume  for  which 
Mrs.  Lyon  had  no  precedent,  though 
Frank  Bathurst  had  given  nuich 
thought  and  consideration  to  it; 
an<l  on  her  bright  yellow-haired 
head  she  had  a  little  cap  of  black 
velvet,  bordered  with  seed  pearls. 
In  fact,  she  was  tlie  model  for  tho 
'  princess'  for  who.so  heart  and 
hand  tlie  bards  were  singing ;  and 
she  had  fallen  asleep  after  waiting  a 
long  time  fi»r  Mr.  Bathurst,  and 
now  she  woke  up,  startled  and 
rather  cross. 

'  This  is  shameless,'  Mrs.  Lyon 
repeated  ;  and  the  girl,  thinking  she 
wa.s  Ixjing  rebuk(;(l  for  drowsiness, 
being  indeed  guiltless  of  every  otlier 
ofT'-nco,  waxed  petulant  with  tho 
old  lady  who  came  instead  of  the 
smiling,  handsome,  agreeable  gen- 


tliinan  whom  she  (tho  model)  had 
expected  to  see.  She  wa.s  a  j)retty 
girl,  an<l  her  Injauty  was  very  much 
in  favour  that  year ;  accordingly  her 
time  was  fully  occupii'd,  and  she 
was  getting  into  the  liabit  of  giving 
her.self  little  airs  of  conferring  a 
favour  when  she  kept  an  appoint- 
ment, ^loreover,  she  was  a  good 
deal  admired  in  a  certain  dance  in 
one  of  the  pantomimes,  for  she 
joined  the  profession  of  ballet-girl 
to  that  of  model.  On  the  whole,  it 
will  readily  l>c  surmisid  that  she 
was  not  likely  to  be  meek  under  the 
reproof  of  Mrs.  L>on. 

'  Then  he  should  have  comeback,' 
slie  retorted,  on  the  supposition 
that  f-he  had  been  wanted  and 
mi.->.sed  while  she  had  been  sleeping. 
And  she  pushed  her  bright  jellow 
hair  out  of  her  eyes  and  glanced  np 
defiantly,  instead  of  l)eing  cruslied 
to  tlie  ground,  as  Mrs.  Lyon  had 
half  anticipated  seeing  her. 

'  lie  should  have  come  back!* 
Mrs.  Lyon  repeated  tho  words  in 
sheer  amazement  at  their  audacity. 
'  He  '  was  her  remote  relation,  '  he ' 
might  be  good  enough  to  marry 
]>!aiiche,  if  no  awful  discoveries  were 
made;  and  this  '  minx,' as  she  called 
the  popular  model  in  her  wrath, 
dared  to  sptak  of  him  thus  fami- 
liarly. 

'  It's  too  late  for  anything  now, 
BO  I  shall  go,'  tho  girl  said,  rising 
uji  and  easting  a  glance  towards  tlio 
darkening  shadows  that  were  falling 
over  the  dais  where  she  Jiad  f-at  a 
princess  in  the  morning;  then  the 
stream  of  Mrs.  Lyon's  virtuous  elo- 
quence burst  the  banks  of  astonish- 
ment and  imlignation,  and  she 
poured  forth  a  flond  of  words  that 
were  utterly  incomprehensible,  but 
at  tho  same  time  intensely  aggra- 
vating to  tho  model. 

'  Too  late!  lost!  lost!  unhappy 
creature!' 

'  Oh  !  it's  not  of  such  conscquenco 
as  that,'  the  girl  interrupted,  hastily 
to.ssing  her  head;  then  she  ailded 
something  relative  to  Mr.  Bathurst 
mis.sing  lier  more  than  sho  should 
him  —  a  statement  which  caused 
Mrs.  Lyon  to  tremble  and  pronounce 
the  word  'abamloned'  imder  her 
bnath. 

As  tho  girl  leisurely  put  off  tho 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


279 


lackct  and  tunic  and  velvet  cap 
of  royalty,  ami  iiiducttHl  herself 
into  the  bonnet  and  mantle  of  this 
period,  Mrs.  Lyon  gazed  at  her, 
and  made  profound  reflections  to 
herself  on  the  callousness  which 
could  be  so  unmoved  under  detec- 
tion, and  the  frivolity  which  could 
attempt  to  disgiiise  vice  in  fanciful 
splendour.  Then  she  thought  that 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  remove 
this  fair  young  rock  on  which  he 
might  split  out  of  reach  of  tempta- 
tion— at  any  rate  out  of  reach  of  Mr. 
Frank  Bathurst ;  and  then  she  calcu- 
lated the  cost  of  the  charitable  act, 
and  wondered  whethtr  she  had 
money  enough  in  her  pocket  to  do 
it,  before  the  young  people  came 
down  from  the  roof  of  the  house. 

'  If  you  would  alter  year  mode 
of  life  I  might  assist  you,'  she  began, 
drawing  out  her  parse;  and  the 
girl,  who  was  adjusting  the  bows  of 
her  bonnet-strings  with  great  care 
before  she  went  out,  stared  at  Mrs. 
Lyon,  as  if  that  lady  was  beyond 
her  comprehension,  as  indeed  she 
was. 

'  Alter  my  mode  of  life  ?  not  on 
any  account,  thank  you;'  then  she 
thought  of  her  Terpsichorean  tri- 
umphs, and  determined  to  very 
much  dazzle  the  old  lady.  '  Do  you 
know  who  I  am '?'  she  asked ;  and 
Mrs.  Lyon  looking  a  horror-stricken 
negative  at  once,  the  girl  went  on 
glibly,  '  I'm  Miss  Rosalie  St.  Clair, 
there — good  morning,'  and  walked 
out,  happily  uncon.-cious  of  the 
meaningless  sound  that  name  had 
for  Mrs.  Lyon. 

The  skirmish  had  been  sharp,  but 
brief.  Mrs.  Lyon  had  almost  a  feel- 
ing of  triumph  when  she  reflected 
on  how  quickly  she  had,  as  she 
thought,  routed  the  fair  invader. 
Now  the  danger  had  departed,  she 
began  to  make  many  hazy  but  com- 
forting conjectures  respecting  it. 
After  all,  it  might  not  be  Mr. 
Bathurst  whom  the  girl  had  spoken 
of  as  '  he.'  Mr.  Lionel  Talbot  was 
very  quiet ;  but— ah !  it  looked  bad 
— very  bad.  She  remembered  now 
that  he  had  eaten  no  luncheon.  At  , 
this  juncture  she  remembered  that 
the  girl  had  used  Mr.  Bathurst's 
name,  which  proved  him  the  of- 
fender. '  I  declare  onc^had  better  be 


in  a  lion's  den  at  once,'  she  mur- 
mured, pathetically,  '  and  then  one 
would  know  what  one  was  about.' 
Then  she  fell  to  softly  bewailing  the 
combination  of  circumstances  which 
had  brought  her  into  this  difliculty, 
and  wondered  whether  she  had 
better  tell  Mr.  Talbot  about  it,  and 
wondered  what  Blanche  would  say 
7WIU  (Blanche  being  quite  innocent 
of  all  former  thought  or  speech  on 
the  subject),  and  '  hoped  Miss  Talbot 
would  listen  to  advice  another  time ' 
(not  that  any  had  been  oflered  to 
poor  Trixy),  and  was  altogether 
hopeless  aird  helpless,  and  overcome 
by  a  sense  of  responsibility. 

'  What  could  they  be  doing  up  on 
the  leads  all  this  time?'  The  leads, 
in  Mrs.  Lyon's  imagination,  was  a 
place  of  gruesome  horror,  slippery, 
flat,  with  no  parapet.  She  wished 
that  she  had  gone  up  with  them. 
She  wished  she  had  not  let  them  go 
up  at  all.  She  wished  that  she  could 
put  old  heads  on  joung  shoulders 
(this  last  wish  not  being  weakened 
by  the  faintest  doubt  as  to  the  great 
superiority  of  her  own  over  every 
other  head  belonging  to  the  i^arty). 
She  wished  that  they  had  all  stayed 
at  home,  and  that  Mrs.  Sutton  had 
come  with  them,  and  a  great  many 
more  totally  irreconcileable  things. 

Meantime  those  on  the  house-top 
had  been  so  happy,  so  entirely  un- 
conscious of  the  cark  and  care,  the 
tumult  and  the  strife  that  was  raging 
at  the  foot  of  the  spiral  staircase. 
There  was  a  glass  erection  on  the 
leads — an  eminent  photographer  had 
lived  there  before  Mr.  Bathurst  took 
the  house— and  under  this  glass  they 
stood  about,  and  were  happy. 

Very  ha])py,  on  the  whole,  all  of 
them ;  though  Beatrix  Talbot  went 
up  and  came  down  in  her  spirits  in 
the  sharp,  sudden,  unreasoning  way 
that  is  specially  symptomatic  of  the 
disease  under  which  she  la''Oured. 
The  very  manner  and  the  very  looks 
which  won  her  more  and  more, 
which  drew  her  nearer,  and  made 
Frank  Bathurst  dearer  to  her,  be- 
came so  many  sources  of  irritation 
to  Trixy  Talbot.  She  had  reached 
the  stage  when  a  vague  feeling  of 
the  loved  one  being  u  just  is  born. 
He  had  it  in  his  power  to  make  her 
so  supremely  happy— to  exalt  her, 


280 


Flaying  for  Utgh  StaJcen. 


bIic  foniVy  li.'liovcil,  n1x)vc  all  womi  n 
— by  tullitif:  luT  aii.l  all  tin*  worlil 
that  1r'  1ov«(1  luT,  ami  liu  diil  not 
avail  liiniM'T  of  it.  Slio  would  liiivo 
disavowiil  t'lc  fcoliiit;,  luil  it  bcuii 
plaf'iNl  Kfiiiv  her  in  tho  ItaM,  cold 
■words  I  liave  used.  She  would  have 
disownol  all  coniiectioti  with  it,  aud 
proltaMy  hivo  duclurcl  it  to  l)c  nn- 
wouiatily,  forward,  and  vain ;  and 
slie  would  have  tried  to  Ixilieve  that 
she  nuant  what  she  professed,  and 
taken  htr-elf  sh/irply  to  task  for 
veiituriiitr  to  love  l>efnre  '  the  ohjt  ct ' 
had  a>k.  d  for  her  fornnlly  in  holy 
matrimony;  and  all  the  time  would 
have  pmo  on  fn  ttiiif;  and  lovinp, 
and  heinfj  happy  and  miserable,  as 
it  is,  and  ha-:  been,  and  ever  shall  be. 
But  thoiif^h  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  make  her  supremely  bles-ed,  and 
did  not  set  m  at  all  likely  to  do  it, 
she  took  the  pood  the  gods  pave, 
and  was  px-ateful.  It  was  something, 
in  default  of  security  of  pissing  lier 
life  in  the  .sun  of  his  pre.«enee,  to  be 
warmed  by  his  smiles;  and  he  was 
no  nigt:ar(l  of  the.se,  giving  thera 
lavishly  when  he  was  pleased — and 
he  was  always  jilea^ed  when  pre'ty 
women  were  by,  espvcially  if  they 
liked  him.  Their  beauty  and  his 
pleasure  in  it  reaeteil  upon  each 
other.  The  better  pleased  they  were 
with  him  the  i)rettier  they  looked ; 
an<l  the  prettier  they  looked  the 
better  phased  he  was  with  them.  It 
was  a  charmed  circle,  and  Frank 
Biithui-st  delighted  in  drawing  it 
clo.ser  and  in  btrengthening  it :  and 
generally,  in  gathering  his  ro-ses 
while  lie  might— while  they  grew 
Well  within  reach,  where  he  could 
gather  tliem  easily— there  was  no 
,charm  in  difficulty  to  him. 

'  If  hh''  sliRlit  me  when  I  woo, 
I  win  »com  and  lei  her  go,' 

he  would  carol  gai'y,  on  the  smallest 
sign  of  coyness— it  needed  not  to  l)o 
'coldiicKs' — making  itself  manifest 
in  the  demeanour  of  the  Cynthia  of 
the  minuta  Imleed,  now  it  was 
only  Blanche  Lyons  more  oj^enly- 
shown  p'easure  in  his  society  that 
was  swaying  him  s'i^htly  from  Mis.s 
Talb  )t  Aci-ordingto  his  gay,  liright, 
practical  cre<  »1,  lite  wok  too  short  to 
wa.ste  one  hour  of  it  in  Itxjkiug  for 
anybody's    hi<lden    naotives.      The 


franl<ly-exprcs.«od  joy,  the  rondily- 
\()uclisafed  syiii])dhy,  the  opvu  |)re- 
ft-n  lice,  were  so  many  tributes  to 
his  vanity— and  his  vanity  wasprcit. 
It  was  .so  glan  -ing  and  sunny  that 
Blanche,  who  to  a  cirtain  extent 
ni>i)r<ciated  it  already,  saw  in  it  no- 
thing to  resent  or  regn  t,  anil  so  fed 
it  a  little — 'jiandned  to  it,'  Trixy 
Talbot  termed  it,  in  her  anger;  for 
Trixy  felt  the  vanity  would  be  a 
permaiK  nt  rival  to  her— and  still 
M-ould  not  have  liad  tlie  smallest 
change  made  in  the  man  who  was 
vain.  He  wa- a  genuine  '.source  of 
joy  and  woe'  to  Miss  Talbot,  but 
ho  was  a  .source  of  joy  ]»iire  an  1 
simp'e  t )  Blanche  Lyon,  and  she 
showed  him  that  he  was  this;  and 
so  he  took  the  turning  that  should 
eventually  lead  him  into  error. 

Mrs.  Sutton  had  been  compelled 
to  remain  away,  by  reason  of  a  very 
unforeseen  and  inopportune  event, 
which  will  be  duly  chronicled.  It 
was  an  event  that  caused  her  a  good 
deal  of  savage  sorrow,  aud  the  sole 
balm  she  could  find  for  the  wound 
was,  that  the  '  afTair  would  be  a  fail- 
ure without  hi'r.'  She  felt  quite 
convinced  in  her  acute  mind  tlait 
Mrs.  Lyon  would,  by  some  over- 
anxiety  or  misa])i)relien^ion,mar  the 
'fair  form  of  festal  day;'  and  she 
was  gently  ])leased  tlw  reat,  after  the 
fiushion  of  Marian.  If  in  f.mcy  she 
could  have  seen  the  quartette  upon 
the  leads,  the  ground  would  have 
been  very  much  cut  from  under  her 
feet. 

It  would  lie  difficult  to  define  the 
ingredients  which  went  to  the  com- 
p o.sition  of  their  ecstatic  satisfaction 
that  day.  It  a!wa\s  is  dilVicult  to 
ascertain  what  makes  jXHiple  who 
are  in  love  so  su)tirbly  satislieil  with 
eacli  other;  for  tluy  are  rarely  bril- 
liant or  at  ea.M;  under  the  cirfiim- 
sbuices.  But  this  ditficulty  does  not 
do  away  with  the  fact  of  their  lieiug 
so. 

Frank  I'athur-t,  in  nality  the 
most  thoughtless  of  the  party,  knew 
quite  well  why  he  liked  it.  Those 
two  girls,  with  th'ir  lovely  faces, 
good  figures,  and  gracefully-falling 
draperies,  alone  would  have  been 
enough  for  hiui.  But  he  had  ariother 
K  »urc,e  of  |)leasure.  Lioi-el  Tall)ot 
and  be  were  ullachtd  to  one  another. 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


281 


A  good  doal  of  boyi.sh  enthusiasm 
mingled  itself  with  a  good  deal  of 
gcuuino  affection.  Frank  respected 
Lionel,  valued  h\<  o]iinion,  espe- 
cially when  it  coincided  with  his 
(Frank's)  own.  They  had  the  spirit 
of  comradeship  upon  them  strongly, 
and  it  pleased  Frank  that  they 
should  be  together.  When  it  hap- 
pened so,  Mr.  l^athurst  liked  to  have 
his  taste  for  beauty  and  grace  and 
fasfination  endorsed  by  his  friend. 
When  his  friend  could  not  endorse 
it,  it  must  in  honesty  be  added  that 
Frank  was  perfectly  resigned.  But 
in  this  case  it  was  palpable  that 
their  tastes  matched ;  and  Frank 
was  not  at  all  jealous,  but  magnani- 
mous, as  became  him— gracious  in 
calluig  Trixy's  attention  to  the  grace- 
ful bearing  of  the  other  pair  leaning 
against  one  of  the  supports  of  the 
glass  walls — nobly  inditferent  to  the 
fact  of  Blanche  lowering  her  voice 
to  a  tenderer  tone  when  she  ad- 
dressed Lionel  than  Mr.  Bathurst 
had  ever  heard  her  use  to  himself. 

'Isn't  it  strange  that  we  should 
all  have  come  together.  I  was  just 
going  to  ask  you  how  you  thought 
you  would  like  my  cousin.  Miss 
Talbot— forgetting  that  she  is  my 
cousin,  and  that  I  mustn't  express 
curiosity  about  her.' 

'  Butyou  may — to  me,  at  lea=t ;  and 
I  think  I  like  her  vtry  very  much,' 
Trixy  replied,  with  a  little  more 
earnestness  than  she  would  have 
employed  if  she  had  thought  so. 
'"Won  by  beauty"  —  we  are  all 
liable  to  be  that,  you  know,  Mr. 
Bathurst.' 

'  Yes— and  she  has  beauty— mar- 
vellous beauty,'  he  answered,  warm- 
ing to  his  topic  at  <mce.  '  Look  at 
her  hands  —  I  think  they're  the 
sweetest  little  hands  I  ever  saw.' 

Trixy  assented.  Her  own  hands 
were  equally  pretty;  but  it  was 
scarcely  her  jilace  to  call  his  atten- 
tion to  this  fact. 

'  And  her  head !'  he  went  on,  ani- 
matedly. '  There  is  something  won- 
derfully taking  in  the  turn  of  her 
head— a  way  I  never  saw  in  any 
other  woman.    Do  you  notice  it  ?' 

He  turned  a  questioning  glance 
towards  Trixy  as  he  spoke.  She 
hal  fixeil  her  eyes  stedfastly  on  the 
girl  she  believed  to  be  her  rival — 


her  lashes  were  levelled,  not  lowered 
— her  brow  was  bent  painfully,  and 
her  lips  were  a  littlo  more  com- 
pressed than  was  usual.  Altogether 
there  was  a  look  of  sad,  yearning 
interest  in  that  love-fraught  face 
that  stirred  some  fibres  in  Ids  heart. 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  Blanche— 
quite  as  beautiful ;  and  she  had  this 
brief  advantage,  that  Blanche  was 
engaf-'cd  with  sorue  one  else  at  the 
moment  and  she  (Tiixy)  was  not. 
He  felt  all  sorts  of  compliments  to 
her  on  the  spot,  and  longed  to  pay 
one  without  seeming  abrupt. 

His  difiidence  about  it  served  him 
in  good  stead  ;  for  Trixy  marked  it, 
and  felt  it  to  be  the  most  graceful 
one  he  could  have  paid  her.  '  Mrs. 
Lyon's  patience  will  lie  exhausted,' 
she  exclaimed,  blushing  a  little. 
'  We  are  forgetting  the  time  alto- 
gether. Will  you  ask  Miss  Lyon  to 
comedown?'  As  he  moved  to  ask 
Mi.ss  Lyon  '  to  come  down,'  a  bit  of 
daphne  he  had  worn  in  his  coat  fell 
to  the  ground.  They  all  moved  in 
close  together.  Blanche  Lyon 
dropped  her  glove,  and  herself 
stoojied  to  pick  it  up;  and  when  Mr. 
Bathurst,  the  last  of  the  party  to 
descend,  looked  for  it,  the  daphne 
was  gone.  The  colour  rose  even  to 
his  brow,  and  he  turned  a  careless 
ear  to  the  sour  tones  with  which 
Mrs.  Lyon  met  her  daughter,  and 
indirectly  reproached  them  all  for 
having  been  so  hmg. 

Presently  they  separated,  the 
ladies  going  l)ack  in  bleak  silence 
to  Victoria  Street,  and  tlie  two 
men  driving  up  to  their  club.  Al- 
most for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Frank  Bathurst  was  glad  of  the  ex- 
cuse his  spirited  horses  gave  him  of  \ 
concentrating  his  attention  on  them, 
to  the  neglect  of  Lionel  Talbot,  who 
sat  by  his  side.  He  had  never  seen 
Lionel  so  completely  ren'gn  himself 
to  the  charm  of  any  woman's  society 
as  he  had  this  day  resigned  himself 
to  that  of  Miss  Lyon.  He  (Frank 
Bathurst;  had  been  void  of  all  active 
feeling  on  the  subject  at  the  time — 
all  fteling  save  that  of  pleasure  at 
seeing  his  friend  pleased.  But  now ! 
— he  had  seen  Blanche  bend  down 
for  the  fallen  glove;  and  he  rejoiced 
more  in  the  loss  of  his  Daphne  than 
he  had  done  in  its  possession. 


282 


THE  SUBLIME  SOCIETY  OF  STEAKS. 


A  FEW  months  apo  tliero  ap- 
)H)Uod  in  a  jxTicKlicul  work,  nc- 
customcd  to  Riisutional  liijzlits,  the 
strange  assertion  that  no  inetanco 
conld  Im  adihu'wl  of  a  beefsteak 
being  eaton  in  perfection  west  of 
Temple  Kar  I  The  unlucky  wiglit 
who  tlirew  off  this  vain  l)oa.st  could 
know  little  of  the  gastronomic  topo- 
graphy of  tlio  metropolis,  or  his 
kuowledKe  must  have  l)een  a  light 
rider,  and  easily  shaken  off;  since, 
for  more  than  a  century  and  a 
quarter  has  there  existed  a  Society 
in  the  classic  region  of  Coveut 
Garden,  formed  ex|)ressly  for  eating 
beefsteaks  in  perfection,  this  l)eiug 
the  only  dish  of  the  repast;  and 
punch  the  jiaramount  accompani- 
ment, with  the  occasional  addition 
of  port  wine. 

Clubs  have  been  formed  for  objects 
much  Ie>s  worthy  than  cooking  and 
eating  l»eefsteaks.  This  was  laid 
down  with  much  humour  and  par- 
ticularity by  Professor  Wilson,  in 
the  palmy  days  of  '  Maga.'  '  How 
many  considi  rations,'  says  the  oracle, 
'are  rerpiisito  to  pnxhico  a  gootl 
rump-steak !  as  the  age,  the  country, 
and  the  pasture  of  the  beef;  tho 
peculiar  cut  of  the  rump,  at  least 
the  fifth  from  tlie  commtucemcut ; 
tho  nature  of  tlio  lire;  the  construc- 
tion and  elevation  of  the  gridircn  ; 
the  choice  of  shalot,  perchance  ;  tho 
masterly  precision  of  the  oyster 
sauce,  ill  which  tho  liquid  is  duly 
favoured  with  the  fish.  It  were 
Itetter  if  |X'pi)er  and  salt  were  inter- 
dicted from  your  broiling  steak, 
and  tongs  only  should  Ite  used  iu 
turning  it.  If  left  too  long  on  the 
fire — the  error  ot  all  bad  cooks— the 
meat  will  lie  hard  and  jiiiceless.  If 
Kauce  Ih3  ust<i,  it  shonid  lie  made 
hot  before  it  is  added  to  the  gravy 
of  the  steak.'  And  hero  wo  are  re- 
minded tliat  Col)l>ett,  who  wiiH  gene- 
rally not  a  whit  more  choice  in  his 
meat  than  in  iiis  words  (these,  by 
tlio  way,  he  Bometimes  ate),  wa.s 
very  careful  about  tho  accompani- 
ments to  a  st'-ak.  IIo  grows  imlig- 
nant  alx»ut  old  horse-radish,  winch 
cats  more  like  little  chips  than  like 


a  garden  vegetable :— "  So  that  at 
taverns  and  eatiiig-hon.^es,  there 
frequently  seems  to  be  a  rivalship 
on  the  point  of  toughness  lietween 
tho  horse-radish  and  the  beefsteak  ; 
and  it  would  l>e  well  if  this  inconve- 
nient rivalship  never  discovered 
it-^elf  anywhere  else.'  Then,  'people 
who  want  to  enjoy  a  steak  should 
eat  it  with  shalots  and  tarragon.' 
Cobbett  adds :  '  An  orthodox  clergy- 
man once  told  me  that  he  and  six 
others  once  ate  some  liecfsteaks  with 
shalots  and  tarragon,'  and  that  they 
'  unanimously  voted  that  beefsteaks 
were  never  so  eaten  before.' 

The  earliest  club  with  the  name 
of  '  Beefstt^ak '  was  formed  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne,  when  the 
science  of  cookery  had  made  great 
strides.  Dr.  King,  iu  his  '  Art  of 
Cookery,'  humbly  inscribed  to  the 
Beefsteak  Club,  1 709,  has  these 
lines: — 

■  He  that  of  honour,  wit,  and  minli  pariakes, 
Jliiy  be  a  fit  cumii;inif>n  u'rr  bif^^i.aks; 
His  iiiimc  may  Ik'  to  fuiuie  times  eiiiollfd 
in  IC>tcuuri'6  book,  whose  gridiron's  framed 
with  guld.' 

Estcourt,  the  actor,  was  mar^e  '  pro- 
vidoro'  of  the  club,  and  for  a  mark 
of  distinction  woro  their  badge, 
which  was  a  small  gridiron  of  gold, 
hung  about  his  neck  with  a  green 
silk  riblxjn.  Chetwood,  in  his  '  His- 
tory of  the  Stage,'  1749,  tells  us: 
'  Tills  club  was  composed  of  tho 
chief  wits  and  great  men  of  tho 
nation.'  Dick  Estcourt  was  l)eloved 
by  Steele.  Who  that  has  read  can 
ever  forget  Steele's  intrinluction  of 
this  choice  spirit,  and  the  touching 
pathos  of  his  last  exit— embalmed  in 
the  pages  of  the  '  Spectator  V  Then, 
in  No.  26+,  we  find  a  letter  from  Sir 
Koger  de  Coverley,  '  To  Mr.  Est- 
court, at  his  House  in  Covent  (iar- 
den,'  addressing  him  as  '  Old  Comi- 
cal One,'  an<l  acknowledging  '  the 
hogsheads  of  n(  at  j)ort  came  safe;' 
and  hoping  next  term  to  help  fill 
Estcourt's  Bumper  '  with  our  people 
of  the  club.'  Tho  'Bumper 'was 
tho  tavern  in  Covent  (Jardt  n,  which 
ICstcourt  opened,  when  Tarnell 
KIKike  of  him  thus: — 


The  Sublime  Society  of  Steaks. 


283 


'Gay  Bacchus  liking  Kstcourt's  wine, 

A  iiolile  meal  bespoke  us  ; 
And  fur  tlie  guests  that  were  to  dinc> 
Brought  Comus,  Love,  and  Jocus.' 

Ned  Warrl,  in  his  '  Secret  History 
of  Clubs/  1709,  describes  the  'Beef- 
steaks,' which  he  coarsely  contrasts 
with  '  the  refined  wits  of  the  Ivit- 
Cat,'  and  thu&  addresses  them : — 

'  Such   strenuous  lines,  so  cheering,  soft,  and 

sweet, 
Tliat  daily  flow  from  your  conjunctive  wit. 
Proclaim  the  power  of  Baef.  tliat  noble  meat. 
Your  tuneful  songs  such  deep  impression  make, 
And  of  such  a\\  ful,  beauteous  strength  partake, 
Each  stanza  seems  an  ox,  eacli  line  a  steak. 
As  if  the  rump  in  slii  os,  broil  d  or  stew"d 
In  its  own  gravy,  till  divin  ly  good, 
Turn'd  all  to  powerful  wit  as  soon  as  chew'd. 
****** 

To  gritid  thy  gravy  out  their  jaws  employ. 
O'er  heaps  of  reeking  steaks  express  their  joy, 
And  sing  of  Beef  as  Homer  did  of  Troy.' 

A  few  years  later  was  established 
'  The  Sublime  Society  of  Steaks/ 
who  abhor  the  notion  of  being 
thought  a  club.  The  society  was 
founded  in  1735,  by  John  Eich,  the 
patentee  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
to  whose  genius  we  owe  the  comic 
pantomime.  He  was  accustomed  to 
arrange  the  comic  business  and  con- 
struct the  models  of  his  tricks  in  his 
private  roofli  at  Covent  Garden. 
Here  resorted  men  of  rank,  who  re- 
lished the  wit  which  hangs  about 
the  stage,  and  Eioh's  colloquial 
oddities  were  much  enjoyed.  Thither 
came  Mordatmt,  Earl  of  Peterbo- 
rough, the  friend  of  Pope,  and  com- 
memorated by  Swift  in  the  well- 
remembered  lines  commencing  with, 

'  Jlordanto  fills  the  trump  of  fame. 
The  Christian  world  his  death  proclaim, 
And  prints  are  crowded  with  his  name. 
In  journeys  he  outiides  the  post, 
Sits  up  till  midnight  with  his  host, 
Talks  politics,  and  gives  the  toast.' 

He  was  then  advanced  in  years,  and 
one  day  stayed  talking  with  Rich 
about  his  tricks  and  transformations, 
and  listening  to  his  agreeable  gos- 
sip, until  Rich's  dinner-hour,  two 
o'clock,  had  arrived.  In  all  these 
colloquies  with  his  visitors,  what- 
ever their  rank.  Rich  never  neg- 
lected his  art.  The  earl  was  quite 
unconscious  of  the  time,  when  he 
observed  Rich  spreading  a  cloth, 
then  coaxing  his  fii-e  into  a  clear. 


cooking  flame,  and  proceeding,  with 
great  gravity,  to  cook  his  own  beef- 
steak on  his  own  gridiron.  The  steak 
sent  up  a  most  inviting  incense,  and 
my  lord  could  not  resist  Rich's  in- 
vitation to  partake  of  it.  A  further 
supply  was  sent  for,  and  a  bottle  or 
two  of  wine  from  a  neighbouring 
tavern  prolonged  the  enjoyment  to 
a  late  hour  in  the  afternoon.  But 
so  delighted  was  the  gay  old  peer 
with  the  entertainment,  that,  on 
going  away,  he  proposed  renewing 
it  at  the  same  hour  and  place,  on 
the  Saturday  following.  The  earl 
then  picked  his  way  back  to  his 
coach,  which  was  waiting  in  the 
street  hard  by.  He  was  punctual 
to  his  engagement  with  Rich,  and 
brought  with  him  three  or  four 
friends,  '  men  of  wit  and  pleasure 
about  town  /  and  so  truly  festive 
was  the  meeting,  that  it  was  pro- 
posed a  Saturday  club  should  be 
held  there  whilst  the  town  remained 
full ;  the  bill  of  fare  being  restricted 
to  beefsteaks,  and  the  beverage  to 
port  wine  and  punch.  It  is  also 
told  that  Lambert,  many  years  prin- 
cipal scene-painter  at  Covent  Gar- 
den Theatre,  originated  the  club 
among  the  visitors  to  his  painting- 
room,  under  similar  circumstances 
to  those  under  which  Eich  is  said  to 
have  done.  Possibly  both  patentee 
and  scene-painter  got  up  the  Society. 
The  members  were  alter  wards  ac- 
commodated with  a  special  room  in 
the  theatre;  and  when  it  was  re- 
built, the  place  of  meeting  was 
changed  to  the  'Shakespeare'  tavern, 
where  was  the  portrait  of  Lambert, 
painted  by  Hudson,  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds's master. 

In  the  '  Connoisseur/  June  6th, 
1754,  we  read  of  the  society  '  com- 
posed of  the  most  ingenious  artists 
in  the  kingdom/  meeting  *  every 
Saturday  in  a  noble  room  at  the  top 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre' — the  situ- 
ation of  the  painting- room  —  and 
never  suffering  'any,  diet  except 
beefsteaks  to  appear.  Here,  indeed, 
are  most  glorious  examples ;  but 
what,  alas !  are  the  weak  endeavours 
of  a  few  to  oppose  the  daily  inroads 
of  fricassees  and  soup-maigres  ?' 
The  apartment  in  the  theatre  appro- 
priated to  'The  Steaks'  varied. 
Thus,  we*' read  of  a  painting-rooin 


2S4 


The  S'lllinir  Society  of  StiaJcs, 


even  with  the  etnpo  over  tlic 
kitclien,  wliirli  was  iiii(kr  jnirt  of 
the  Ktagi)  iitiiiest  IJow  Street.  At 
one  jKriod  tht  y  (hucil  in  a  small 
TDom  over  tht-  pa-icagi!  of  the  tlieatre. 
The  steaks  were  tlrt-sseil  iu  the  same 
r(X)m,  and  when  it  was  foiiiiil  too 
hot,  a  curtain  was  drawn  Itctwcen 
the  company  and  the  lire.  For- 
merly the  memliers  wore  a  blue 
coat,  witii  red  collar  and  cutis,  and 
liiittons  with  the  initials  '  U.S..'  and 
bcliiiid  tlic  jtrcsidL-nt's  chair  was 
placed  tile  Society's  hall)ert,  which, 
with  the  gridinm  used  from  tlie 
formation  of  the  S'.eaks,  was  foiiu  1 
among  tlie  riiins  after  tlie  Covent 
Garden  fire.  This  gridiron  is  i)re- 
8erve<l  in  tlie  ceiling  of  the  room 
wiiereiu  the  Society  now  dine. 

Among  the  celehrities  who  came 
early  to  '  The  Steaks,'  wer^'  Hogarth 
and  liis  father-in-law,  Sir  James 
Thornhill,  stimulated  hy  their  love 
of  the  painters  art,  and  the 
er|ually  potentcharm  of  convivialitj'. 
Churchill  was  introduced  by  liis 
friend  Wilkes,  to  whom  lie  writes 
on  one  occasion :  '  Your  friends  at 
tlie  IJtefstcak  inquired  after  you 
last  Saturday  with  the  greatest  zeal, 
and  it  gave  me  no  small  jilea-^urj 
that  I  was  the  person  of  whom  the 
inquiry  was  male.'  Cliarles  Price 
was  a  memlter,  and  it  is  related  that 
he  and  Churchill,  with  their  wit, 
often  kept  tlie  tal)Ie  in  a  roar.  ]\lr. 
Justice'  Welsh  was  frequently  chair- 
iiiaii  at  the  Ixsef^teak  dinners;  and 
^Irs.  NoUekens,  his  daughter,  ac- 
knowledged that  she  often  dref-.sed 
his  bat  for  the  visit,  trinuued  with 
ribl>ons  similar  to  tho-i-e  worn  by 
the  Yeomen  of  the  Guard.  The 
Justice  was  a  loyal  man,  but  discon- 
tinued his  membership  wlun  Wilkes 
joined  the  Society,  though  Wilkes 
wa.s  t/f  Tii'ii,  at  'The  Steaks.' 

To  'The  Steaks'  Wilkc'^  sent  a 
copy  of  his  iiitiiiioiis  'Esi«ay  on 
^Voman,'  fir.-t  printed  for  private 
circulation;  for  w'.ich  I/ir!  Sand- 
wich (Jemmy  Twitcher)  himself  a 
memlKr  of  the  Society,  moved  in 
the  House  of  Lords  that  Wilkes 
should  1h3  taken  into  cust<Mly. 
HiMco  Walpole  writ<  s  in  the  sjime 
yca.r,  1763 :  '  The  wicketl  aflirm  that 
very  lately  at  a  cluj)  [The 
StcakB]    held  at    the    top  of   the 


playliouse  in  Prury  Lano,  Lord 
Sandwich  talked  so  j)rofaiuly  that 
he  drove  two  harlequins  out  of 
comjiany.'  The  grossness  and 
blasphemy  of  the  'Essay  '  disgusted 
'  The  Steaks,'  by  whom  Lord  Sand- 
wich was  expelled;  and  Wilkes 
ut'ver  dined  there  after  1763;  yet 
when  he  went  to  Fiance  they  hypo- 
critically made  him  an  honorary 
member. 

(iarrick  was  not  fond  of  clul>-life, 
but  he  was  an  honoured  member  of 
'Tiio  Sttaks;'  and  they  jiossess 
among  their  relics  the  hat  ainl  sword 
which  L>avid  wore,  pio'ably  on  the 
night  when  he  stayed  to  >  long  after 
dinner,  and  had  to  play  '  lt,in.,'er ' 
at  Druiy  Lane.  The  ]iit  grew  rest- 
less ;  the  gallery  bau  kd, '  Manager! 
manager  I'  Garrick  had  been  sent  for 
to  '  The  Steaks,' at  Covent  (iarden. 
Carriages  blocked  up  Ku.ssell  Street, 
and  he  had  to  thread  his  way  be- 
tween them.  As  he  cainn  jianting 
into  the  tlieatre,  'I  think,'  said 
Ford,  one  of  the  anxious  patentees, 
'considering  the  stake  you  and  I 
have  in  this  house,  you  might  pay 
more  attention  to  the  business.' 
'  True,  my  good  friend,'  returned 
Garrick,  '  but  I  wa-^  thinking  of  my 
slta'c  in  the  other  house.' 

At  'Tlie  St<aks'  Garrick  was 
reconciled  to  Column,  to  which  tjie 
following  note  refers: 

'My  tevr  Cclman, 

'  I'ncket  has  been  with  me, 
and  tells  me  of  jour  friendly  inten- 
tions towards  me.  1  should  have 
been  l>tforeliand  with  you,  ha<l  I 
not  been  ill  with  the  beefsteakvS  and 
arrack  punch  last  S;itarday,  and 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  play- 
house. 

"  Hi'   that  parte   lu   shall  bring   a  br.iiid  from 
H.av.n, 
Anil  lirt!  us  hence." 

•  Ever  yours,  old  and  new  fridul, 
'D.  Gaukick.' 

At '  The  Steaks '  one  night  Garrick 
was  lK)a.sting  of  his  regularitj'  in 
ticketing  and  lal telling  ))lays  sent 
to  liini  for  acc(  jitan-e  for  ]ierforin- 
ance;  when  Murphy  said  acro.ss  the 
table,  'A  fig  for  your  hypocri.sy; 
yon  know,  Lavy,  you  mislaid  my 
tragedy  two  months  ago,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  you  have  lost  it' 


The  Sublime  Society  of  SteaJcs. 


285 


'  Yes/ replied  Garrick ;  '  bntyon  for- 
get, yoti  nngiatcful  dog,  that  I 
oflfered  you  more  than  its  value;  for 
yoii  might  have  had  two  manuscript 
farces  in  its  stead.'  This  is  the 
right  paternity  of  an  anecdote  often 
told  of  Slieridan  and  other  parties. 

Jack  Ricliards  was  never  absent 
from  '  Tlie  Steaks,'  unless  arrested 
by  the  '  fell  sergeant,'  gout.  He  was 
recorder,  and  had  to  pass  seiitence 
upon  those  who  had  offended  against 
the  rules  and  observances  of  the 
Society ;  when  he  put  on  Garrick's 
hat,  aud  inflicted  a  long  wordy 
harangue  upon  the  culprit ;  nor  was 
it  possible  to  see  when  he  meant  to 
stop.  He  was  a  most  exuberant 
talker;  but  would  as  soon  adul- 
terate his  glass  of  port  wine  with 
water,  as  dash  his  talk  with  an  un- 
generous remark. 

Mrs.  Sheridan's  brother,  William 
Linley,  often  charmed  the  Society 
with  his  jHire,  simple,  English  song, 
to  a  melody  of  Arne's,  or  Jackson's 
of  Exeter,  or  a  simple  air  of  his 
fathers.  He  had  written  a  novel 
in  three  volumes,  which  was  so 
schooled  by  '  The  Steaks '  that  he 
wrote  no  more.  A  member  brought 
a  volume  of  the  work  in  his  pocket, 
and  read  a  passage  from  it  aloud. 
Yet  Linley  never  betrayed  the  iiri- 
table  sulkiness  of  a  wounded  author, 
but  bore  with  good  humour  the 
pleasantrits  that  played  around  him, 
and  used  to  exclaim — 

•  This  is  no  flattery ;  these  are  the  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am.' 

Dick  Wilson,  whose  complexion 
had  for  many  years  been  crimsoning 
over  the  port  wine  of  the  Society, 
was  a  solicitor,  and  long  dignitied 
as  Lord  Eldon's  '  port- wine  loving 
secretary.'  He  stood  the  fire  of  '  The 
Steaks '  with  good  humour.  An- 
other good-natured  butt  was  Old 
Walsh,  the  '  Gentle  Shepherd.'  Eow- 
land  Stephenson,  the  banker,  was 
another  '  Beefstcaker  ;'  as  was  Wil- 
•iam  Joseph  Denison,  wdio  sat  many 
years  in  Parliament  for  Surrey,  and 
died  a  millionaire.  He  was  a  man 
of  cultivated  tastes :  we  remember 
his  lyrics  in  the  '  Keepsake  '  annual. 

The  golden  period  of  the  Society 
is  generally  considered  to  be  that 
when  Bubb  Dodington,  Aaron  Hill, 


Hoadley  (who  wrote  '  The  Sus- 
picions Husband'),  Leonidas Glover, 
Ucmnell  Thornton,  and  Tickell  were 
members.  John  B'  aid,  the  rich 
tenor,  wiio  sang  in  Handel's  operas, 
was  Presideiit  of  tlie  Club  in  1784. 
In  1785,  wh(n  the  Society  had  been 
instituted  just  fifty  years,  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  admitted:  there  was 
no  vacancy,  but  the  number  of 
members  was  inrreased  from  twenty- 
four  to  twenty- five.  The  Dukes  of 
Clarence  and  Sussex  were  also  of 
'  The  Steaks :'  these  princes  were 
both  much  attached  to  the  theatre 
—  the  former  to  one  of  its  brightest 
ornaments,  Dorothy  Jordan. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  was 
another  celel)nty  of  '  The  Steaks,' 
and  frequently  met  here  the  Prince 
of  Wales.  Tiie  Duke  was  a  great 
gourmand,  and  used  to  eat  his  dish 
of  fish  at  a  neighbouring  tavern, 
and  then  join  '  The  Steaks.'  The 
Duke  took  the  chair  when  the  cloth 
was  removed :  it  was  a  place  of 
dignity,  elevated  some  steps  above 
the  table,  and  decorated  with  the 
insignia  of  the  Society.  For  the 
dinner,  as  the  clock  struck  five,  a 
curtain  drew  up,  discovering  the 
kitchen,  in  which  the  cooks  were 
seen  at  work,  through  a  sort  of 
grating,  with  this  inscription  from 
Marbeth— 

'  If  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere 
well 
It  were  quickly  done.' 

His  Grace  of  Norfolk  would  eat 
two  or  three  steaks,  fragrant  from 
the  gridiron ;  and  when  his  labours 
were  thought  to  be  over,  he  might 
sometimes  be  seen  rubbing  a  clean 
plate  with  a  shalot,  for  the  r*  cep- 
tion  of  another  steak.  The  Duke 
was  an  enormous  eater;  he  would 
often  consume  three  or  four  jDounds 
of  steak,  and  after  that  take  a 
Spanish  onion  and  beetroot,  chop 
them  together,  and  eat  them  with 
oil  and  vinegar.  After  dinner  he 
was  ceremoniously  ushered  to  the 
chair,  and  invested  with  an  orange- 
coloured  ribbon,  to  which  a  small 
silver  gridiron  was  attached.  At 
the  sale  of  curiosities  belorging  to 
Mr.  Harley,  the  comedian,  in  Gower 
Street,  in  November,  1858,  a  silver 
gridiron,  which  had  been  worn  by 


286 


TJte  Sithlime  Society  of  SleaJcs. 


a  moral>or  of '  The  Steaks,'  was  Eold 
for  i/.  3s.* 

In  tilt"  cliftir  tlio  Duko  of  Norfolk 
comportc'il  liiiiisflf  with  urliuiiity 
nnd  pKxl  liuiiiii\ir.  rsimlly  tlio 
rresi(Uiit  was  tlio  turpot  at  which 
the  ji'sts  weiv  tiivtl,  but  modi  lati'ly  ; 
for  thonfjh  a  characteristic  eipiality 
reigneil  at  'The  Steaks,'  tlie  iiillu- 
ence  of  rank  and  station  were  felt 
tliere.  Tlie  I  Mike's  convtr^ation 
occasionally  showed  evidence  of  ex- 
tensivo  reailinp,  which  was  rarely 
impaired  by  the  sturdy  wine  of 
the  S')ciety.  Captain  ]\iorris,  the 
laureate-lyrist  of '  The  Steaks,'  usu- 
ally sang  one  or  two  of  his  own 
songs.  At  nine  o'clock  tlie  Duke 
quitted  the  chair,  and  was  succeeded 
by  Sir  John  lli])i)isley,  who  liad  a 
terrible  time  of  it:  no  one  spared 
him — even  new  members  made  their 
fitftt  essays  upon  the  J'aronet,  tlian 
whom  no  man  was  more  promjit 
to  attack  others.  He  quitted  the 
Society  in  consequence  of  an  odd 
adventure  which  really  liappened 
to  him,  and  wliich  being  related 
by  one  of '  The  Steaks' with  mali- 
cioTis  fidelity,  raised  such  a  shout 
of  laughter  at  the  Baronet's  ex- 
pense that  he  could  no  longer  stand 
it. 

Jolin  Kemble  was  one  of  '  The 
Steaks'  celebrities, and  upon  familiar 
terms  with  his  Cjirace  of  Norfolk. 
One  evening  at  Norfolk  House, 
Cajttain  Jrorris  having  left  tlie  table 
early,  for  the  lyrist  kept  l)etter  lioiira 
than  his  ducal  friend,  it  grew  late, 
wlien  Kemble  venturetl  to  suggest 
to  the  Duke  some  significant  hints 
O-s  to  the  improvement  of  ^lorris's 
fortune.  His  Grace  grew  generous 
over  his  wine,  and  promised :  the 
realization  came,  and  Morris  lived 
to  the  age  of  ninety-three  to  enjoy 
it. 

It  ha«  Ix-en  remarked  of  '  The 
Steaks,'  that  there  must  have  Ken 
orig^inally  a  wise  and  simple  ctnle 
of  laws,  which  could  have  held  them 
toguther  for  so  lengthened  a  period. 
Yet  they  have  had,  during  tlu?  past 
sixty  years,  a  migratory  time  of  it. 
Covent  Garden   Theatre,  in  which 

•  'Club  Life  of  Loiiclnn,'  vol,  i.  p.  142  ; 
to  which  work  .icknowle<lj;ni<?iit  is  'liic  for 
cei  tain  of  the  anecdotes  leLued  Id  tho  pi  cM-nt 
pajtr. 


the  first  steak  was  broiled,  was 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1808;  the 
fir.st  gridiron,  which  liiid  long  been 
enshrined  as  one  of  the  I'mati's  of 
thecluit,  was  .saved  ;  but  the  valuable 
stock  of  wine  shared  the  fate  of  the 
building,  and  the  archives  of  the 
Society  j)erished.  Herein  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  set  down  the  good  things 
said  at '  The  Steaks,'  and  regi.ster  tiio 
names  of  the  early  members.  After 
the  tire  at  Covent  Garden  the  'Sub- 
lime Society'  was  re-estal)li.shed  at 
the  Bc.lford  Hotel,  until  .Air.  Arnold 
liad  fitted  up  ai)artments  for  their 
reception  at  the  English  Ojiera 
Hou.se.  Here  they  continued  to 
meet  until  the  destruction  of  that 
theatre  by  fire,  in  1830.  Thus, 
twice  liurnt  out,  they  refurne(l  to 
the  Bedford;  and  their  old  friend 
Mr.  Arnold,  in  rebuilding  his  theatre, 
the  Lyceum,  had  a  dining-room 
provided  for  them  of  a  very  cha- 
racteristic order.  Mr.  Cunningliara 
has  a]tpropriafely  termed  it  '  a  little 
Escurial  in  itself.'  The  doors, 
wainscoting,  and  roof,  of  good  old 
English  oak,  arc  studded  with  grid- 
irons, as  thick  as  Henry  MI.'s 
Chapel  with  the  portcullis  of  the 
founder.  Everything  assumes  the 
shape,  or  is  distinguishe<l  by  the 
rejiresentation,  of  the  emblematic 
implement  —  the  gridiron.  '  The 
cook  is  seen  at  his  office  through 
the  bars  of  a  spacious  griilirou,  and 
the  original  gridiron  of  the  Society 
(the  survivor  of  two  terrilic  fires), 
holds  a  conspicuous  po.sition  in  the 
centre  of  the  ceiling.' 

The  portraits  of  several  worthies 
of  the  '  Sublime  Society'  have  Injcn 
painted.  One  lirofher  hangs  '  in 
chains,'  as  Arnold  remarked,  in  allu- 
sion to  tlie  civic  chain  which  he 
wears.  His  rolx;  drew  from  Lord 
Brougham,  one  of  '  The  Steaks,'  on 
Iteing  asked  if  the  portrait  was  a 
likeness,  the  remark,  that  it  could 
not  fail  of  being  like  him,  '  there 
was  so  much  of  the/«r  (thief)  about 
him.' 

We  have  spoken  of  the  brother- 
hoo<l  equality  of  the  Society,  and 
may  as  well  note  that  the  junior 
mcmlK-r  has  a  duty  accordant  with 
his  station.  Thus  the  noble  and 
learned  lord,  whom  we  have  just 
mentioned,  hius  Ix-en  seen  emerging 


TJie  SaUlme  Society  of  Steah, 


287 


from  the  cellar  with  half-a-dozen 
bottles  in  a  basket!  And  the  Duke 
of  Leinstcr,  wlio  is  now  the  president 
of  the  Society,  has,  m  liis  turn, 
taken  the  same  duty.  Morris  con- 
tinued to  be  tlie  laureate  of  '  The 
Steaks'  (the  other  day  he  was  irre- 
verently called  a  poet '  by  courtesy') 
until  the  year  1831,  when  he  bade 
adieu  to  the  Society.  He  was  then 
in  his  eighty-sixth  year. 

]\Iorris  revisited  the  Society  in 
1835,  when  he  was  presented  with  a 
large  silver  bowl,  attcctionately  in- 
scritied.  He  then  addressed  the 
brotherhood.  There  was  still  another 
effusion  on  the  treasured  gift : — 

'Ami  call  to  my  Muse,  when  care  strives  to 

pursue, 
"B  ing  the  Steaks  to  ray  memory,  tbe  Bowl 
to  my  view." ' 

Morris  was  staid  and  grave  in  his 
general  deportment.  There  is,  in  the 
collection  in  Evans's  Music-room  in 
Covent  (harden,  a  j^ortrait  of  the 
bard— a  poor  performance,  but  a 
likeness.  A  better  portrait,  from  the 
family  picture,  is  engraved  as  a 
frontispiece  to  '  Club  Life  of  London.' 
Moore,  in  his  Diary,  tells  us  of 
Colman  being  at '  The  Steaks,' '  quite 
drunk,'  making  extraordinary  noise 
when  Morris  was  singing,  which 
much  disconcerted  the  bard.  Yet  he 
could  unbend.  We  remember  to 
have  heard  him  strike  a  i^ianoforte 
at  a  music-seller's,  and  sing,  '  The 
Girl  I  left  behind  Mo  :'  he  was  then 
past  his  eight ieth  year.  Curran  said 
to  him  one  day,  '  Die  Avhen  you 
will,  Charles,  you  will  die  in  your 
youth.' 

Morris's  ancient  and  rightful 
office  at  '  The  Steaks '  was  to  make 
the  punch.  One  of  the  members 
describes  him  at  his  laboratory  at 
the  sideboard,  stocked  with  the  va- 
rious ingredients.  '  Then  smacking 
an    elementary  glass  or  two,  and 


giving  a  significant  nod,  the  tiat  of 
its  excellence ;  and  what  could  ex- 
ceed the  ecsta'^y  with  which  he 
filled  the  glasses  that  thronged 
round  the  bowl,  joying  over  its 
mantling  beauties,  and  distributing 
the  fascinating  draught — 

"  Tliat  flames  and  dances  in  iis  ci-ystal  bound."  ' 

Morris's  allegiance  to  '  The  Steaks ' 
was  undivided.  Neither  hail,  nor 
rain,  nor  snow-storm  kept  him 
away;  no  engagement,  no  invita- 
tion, seduced  him  from  it.  He 
might  be  seen  '  outwatcdiing  the 
bear'  in  his  seventy- eighth  year, 
when  nature  had  given  no  signal 
of  decay  in  frame  or  faculty. 

'The  Steaks'  partake  of  a  five 
o'clock  dinner  every  Saturday,  from 
November  till  the  end  of  June.  The 
Society  consists  of  noblemen  and 
gentlemen,  twenty-four  in  number ; 
every  member  has  the  power  of  in- 
viting a  friend. 

With  the  enumeration  of  a  few 
memorials,  we  conclude.  Formerly 
the  gridiron  was  a  more  prominent 
emblem  of '  The  Steaks '  than  at  pre- 
sent. The  table- cloths  had  gridirons 
in  damask  on  them  ;  the  drinking- 
glasses  were  engraved  with  grid- 
irons, as  were  the  plates ;  just  as  the 
orchestra  decorated  the  plates  at 
Vauxhall  Gardens. 

Among  the  presents  made  to  the 
Society  are  a  punch-ladle  from  Bar- 
rington  Bradshaw;  six  spoons  from 
Sir  John  Boyd;  a  mustard-pot 
from  John  Trevanion,  ]\r.P. ;  two 
dozen  water-plates  and  eiglit  dishes, 
given  by  the  Duke  of  Sussex  ;  cruet- 
stand,  given  by  W.  Bolland ;  vine- 
gar-cruets, by  Thomas  Scott; ;  Lord 
Suifolk  has  given  a  silver  cheese- 
toaster— toasted  or  stewed  cheese 
being  the  wind-up  of  '  The  Steaks ' 
dinntr.* 

"^  'Club  Life  of  Loudon,'  voL  i.  p.  140. 
1866. 


388 


Cosiles  in  the.  Air. 


CASTLES   IN   THE   ATK. 

YOrTir,  build  thy  ofistlcs  in  the  air— 
Ij've— ami  you'll  tirnl,  ns  I  have  found, 
Tlio  ruins  of  those  structures  fair, 

Heaps  of  cold  ashes  on  the  ground, 
To  scatter  to  the  eveninp  air. 
Or — on  the  sackcloth  of  despair. 


W. 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


APKIL,    1867. 


BOATING  LIFE  AT  OXFOED. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  NEW  CAPTAIN. 


^OST  people  who  know  anything 
lYl  of  Oxford,  know  that  of  all  the 
amusements  of  the  place,  boating  is 
the  most  absorbing,  and  the  most 
keenly  pursued.  Not  only  on  bright 
summer  evenings,  but  through  the 
damp  mists  of  November,  and  the 
frost  and  sleet  of  February,  the  river 
from  Folly  Bridge  to  Iffley  Lock  is 
covered  with  craft  of  all  descriptions, 
from    the    quiet    '  dingey '    to    the 
stately   '  eight.'     Whatever  be  the 
attractions  to  be  found  elsewhere, 
whatever  be  the  state  of  wind  or 
weather,  be  it  rain,  hail,  or  snow,  as 
long  as  boats  can  live,  boats  are 
launched,    and    the    regular    fre- 
quenters of  the  river  pursue  their 
daily  recreation,  or,    rather,    their 
daily  business,  for  business  it  is; 
more  or  less  absorbing  with  dif- 
ferent men,  but  a  business  with  all. 
Probably  most  people,  who  are  con- 
nected either  as  friends  or  relatives 
with  Oxford  men,  know  thus  much 
about  Oxford  boatiDg ;  but  few  under- 
stand why  its  influence  so  widely 
pervades  Oxford  life,  and  its  spirit 
so  deeply  enters  into  every  Oxford 
man,  whether  he  take  part  in  it  per- 
sonally or  no.    Of  course  Jones's 
sisters  are  delighted  to  hear  that  he 
is  going  to  row  '  Bow  of  the  'Varsity ' 
this  year,  and  they  like  the  excite- 
ment of  getting  up  in  the  twilight 
to  go  and  see  the  race ;    possibly 
they  know  what   is   meant   by  a 
'bump,'  and  a  'stroke;'  but  why 
John  should  think  so  much  of  his 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIV. 


boat   making   a   'bump,'  why  he 
should  speak  of  rowing  in  the  Eight 
at  Putney  as  preferable  to  any  num- 
ber of  first-classes,  they  cannot  un- 
derstand.   And  Jones's  father,  from 
his  oracular  post  on  the  hearthrug, 
says,  '  Boating  is  a  fine,  manly  exer- 
cise, but  he  hopes  John  will  not 
allow  it  to  interfere  with  his  studies, 
and  make  a  business  of  what  should 
only  be  a  pastime.'    So  that,  on  the 
whole,  Jones  feels  that  on  the  sub- 
ject dearest  to  his  heart  he  does  not 
receive  much  sympathy  in  the  do- 
mestic circle.    Now  this  want  of  in- 
terest in  a  pursuit  which  engages 
much  of  the  time  and  energies  of 
young  men  of  both  our  great  uni- 
versities, is  surely  to  be  regretted, 
and  is,  in  fact,  regretted  by  many. 
It  is  not,  of  cours3,  to  be  expected 
that  those  who  do  not  engage  per- 
sonally in  a  pursuit  should  feel  an 
equal  interest  in  it  with  those  who 
do ;  but  it  seems  both  possible  and 
desirable  that  they  should  under- 
stand how  that  interest  arises,  and  is 
so  constantly  maintained  among  uni- 
versity men  of  every  variety  of  taste 
and  every  degree  of  muscular  deve- 
lopment.    I  purpose,  therefore,  to 
attempt,  in  a  few  sketches  of  boating 
life  and  boating  men,  to  illustrate 
without  exaggeration,  and  sometimes 
by  scenes  from  real  life,  the  im- 
portant ppsition  that  boating  holds 
at  Oxford,  to  account  for  the  en- 
thusiasm it  creates,  and  to  mark  the 
nature  of  its  influence  on  the  hfe  of 


290 


Boating  Life  (it  Oxford. 


an  OxfDrd  man.  I  shall  l>cgin,  with- 
out fmtlicr  preface,  with  some  ac- 
count of 

A  College  1\If.etino. 

On  the  morning  of  the  22nd  of 
January,  18—,  the  following  notice 
was  posted  on  the  inside  of  the  Col- 
lege gates : — 

•St.  Anthony's  College  Boat  Clab. 
A  meeting  of  the  Club  will  Ix)  held 
on  Monilay  evening  next,  in  Rlr. 
Macleano's  rootus,  at  nine  o'clock,  to 
elect  a  Captain,  and  transact  other 
business  of  importance. 

(Signed),  '  Charles  TiioRNniLL, 
•  Captain.' 

I,  Tom  Maynard,  a  freshman,  read 
this  notice,  in  common  with  the  rest 
of  the  College,  as  I  walked  forth  for 
a  morning  stroll  between  Chapel  and 
breakfast.  Looking  back  at  myself  as 
I  was  then,  I  l)elieve  I  may  pay  with- 
out vanity  that  I  was  pretty  much 
what  a  freshman  ought  to  be.  I  had 
a  proper  reverence  for  senior  men,  a 
proper  wish  to  support  the  institu- 
tions of  my  college,  especially  the 
College  boat,  a  desire  to  avoid  '  a  l)ad 
eet,'  and  a  wholesome  fear  of  doing 
anything  that  might  seem  '  fresh,' 
or  might  cause  me  to  be  considered 
cheeky  or  presumptuous.  I  had, 
therefore,  some  doubts,  after  reading 
the  notice  of  meeting,  as  to  whether, 
in  spite  of  having  the  day  before 
paid  a  subscription  of  2/.  2.1.,  1  was 
entitled  to  take  part  in  the  august 
deliberations  of  the  St.  Anthony's 
Boat  Club  However,  having;  taken 
counsel  with  a  brother  freshman, 
who,  being  of  a  more  bustling  terai)er 
than  I,  made  more  Munders,  butgot 
his  information  on  things  in  general 
quicker  than  1  did,  1  learned  that  I 
might  consider  myself  a  full-blown 
memlKT  of  the  club,  with  a  right  to 
'  speak,  vote,  and  blow  u])  the  ollicers, 
and  fr»pos:e  anything,  my  dear  fel- 
low,'— such  were  his  words — '  pro- 
pose yourself  for  captain,  and  me 
for  stroke  of  the  Kiglit,  if  you 
like.'  After  this  a.'-surance  from  my 
friend  Wingfield,  an  enthusiastic 
and  mercurial  man,  whoso  soul 
'o'cr-informed  its  tenement  of  ciuy,' 
the  said  tenement  weighing  under 
seven  stone,  1  determined  to  go  to 


the  meeting,  and  to  the  meeting  I 
went. 

It  was  ten  minutes  after  nine 
o'clock  when  I  reached  Mr.  Mac- 
leane's  rooms.  Business  had  not 
yet  commenced,  but  there  was  a 
tolerably  good  muster  already.  Men 
of  all  sizes  wore  Inunping  about  the 
room,  some  disposing  tlieir  limbs  in 
the  most  luxurious  manner  on  easy 
chairsand  sofas,  some  leaningagainst 
the  high  oak  mantel picc-e,  some 
perched  on  tall  scats  in  thi;  window; 
about  half  were  t'molcing,  and  several 
huge  tankards  of  beer  were  passed 
round  the  room  from  time  to  time, 
and  were  saluted  with  much  gusto. 
'  Look  hero,'  said  Wingliold,  who 
sat  next  me,  and  took  his  pull  at  the 
beer  with  the  air  of  an  old  hand, 
'this  cup  is  to  commemonito  the 
year  when  wo  won  everytliing  at 
Henley— the  Grand  Challenge,  the 
Ladies'  Plate,  the  Stewards',  and  the 
Diamond  Sculls.  liather  good, 
wasn't  it,  old  boy  ?  And  d'ye  see 
that  big  thing  with  a  lid  to  it? 
They  say  a  man  once  drank  it  right 
ofTin  Hall :  it  very  nearly  killed  him, 
and  no  wonder,  for  it  holds  more 
than  two  quarts;  but  he's  all  right 
now ;  a  parson  somewhere  in  the 
country,  1  believe.'  While  Wing- 
field  was  giving  me  this  information 
in  an  unlcr-tnne,  there  was  plenty 
of  chaff  going  al)Out  the  room,  and 
an  occasional  bit  of  '  bear- fighting,' 
which  I  may  describe,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  uninitiated,  as  a  friendly  in- 
terchange of  compliment.s,  taking 
the  form  of  wrestling,  heaving  of 
sofa-cushions,  i\:c. 

At  the  table,  with  a  largo  mode- 
rator, and  ])ens,  ink,  and  paper  bo- 
fore  him,  Silt  the  captain,  conferring 
gravely  with  the  secretary,  who  sat 
at  his  right,  on  the  business  about 
to  be  transacted. 

'I  say,  Barrington,'  shouted  the 
captain  to  one  of  the  men  in  the 
window,  'just  sing  out  once  more, 
and  if  no  one  else  turns  up,  we'll 
begin.' 

Barrington  upon  this  opened  the 
window,  and  called  out  in  tones  vary- 
ing from  a  cricked  tenor  to  a  tragic 
l)a.s.-i,  the  single  monosyllablo  '  Drag.' 
Having  doni- this  about  a  dozen  l^mes, 
apparently  to  his  own  immense  en- 
joyment, he  closed  the  window,  and 


Boativg  Life  at  Oxford. 


291 


awaited  the  result  of  his  elforts. 
*  The  Eight  are  not  all  here,'  said  a 
sharp  voice.  '1  hope  you'll  fine 
those  who  are  away,  Thornliill ;  it's 
the  rule,  you  know.'  'All  right, 
Tip,  it's  only  old  Five ;  he's  always 
late,  but  he's  sure  to  come.' 

'  Oh !  here  you  are,  at  last,'  cried 
Tip,  as  the  door  opened,  and  a  very 
large  body,  surmounted  by  a  good- 
humoured  and  rather  handsome 
face,  with  a  short  pipe  in  its  mouth, 
loafed  into  the  room.  '  You're  just 
in  time.  You'd  have  been  fined  in 
another  second.' 

'  I'll  break  your  neck  when  I  get 
near  you,  young  'un,'  returned  Num- 
ber Five.  '  I  hope  I'm  not  late, 
Thornhill;  there  was  a  rattling 
brew  of  bishop  going  in  Jackson's 
rooms,  that  was  too  gcod  to  leave.' 

'  Of  course ;  we  knew  you  must 
be  lushing  somewhere,'  put  in  Tip. 

'Will  you  shut  up?'  replied  the 
big  man,  threatening  him  with  the 
tankard  he  had  taken  up  on  first 
entering  the  room.  'The  fact  is, 
captain,  I  believe  I'm  like  those 
things  in  the  Greek  Testament,  that 
stumped  me  in  the  Schools  the 
other  day,  containing  two  or  three 
firkins  apiece.'  'Ah!'  said  Thorn- 
hill,  '  only  very  little  of  it  is  water ; 
however,  sit  down,  and  we'll  begin. 
Order,  order !' 

At  this  all  hats  went  off,  and 
everybody  listened. 

•  Gentlemen,'  said  Thornhill,  '  be- 
fore we  proceed  to  the  main  business 
of  the  evening,  the  secretary  will 
read  the  annual  statement  of  ac- 
counts.' 

Hallett,  the  secretary,  then  rose 
and  made  a  brief  and  not  very  lucid 
statement,  from  which  it  api^eared 
that  the  club  was  not  more  than 
150?.  in  debt,  and  there  was  great 
hope  that,  with  careful  manage- 
ment, the  debts  might  be  easily  paid 
off  in  the  course  of  a  few  years. 

When  the  '  Hear,  hear, '  that 
greeted  the  secretary's  statement 
had  subsided,  Thornhill  rose  again 
and  said,  after  scraping  his  throat 
more  than  once,  '  Gentlemen,  I  have 
now  to  resign  the  captaincy  of  the 
club,  aud  to  ask  you  to  elect  a  fresh 
man  iti  my  place.' 

Although  every  one  had  known 
long  before  that  the    captain  was 


going  to  resign,  no  one  seemed  to 
have  realized  the  fact  till  now,  and 
there  was  silence  all  through  the 
room. 

*  If  that  were  all,'  continued 
Thornhill,  '  I  should  not  trouble 
you  with  a  speech  ;  but,  as  I  shall 
leave  the  College  to-morrow,  and  be 
on  my  way  to  India  probably  within 
a  fortnight,  I  want  to  say  a  word  or 
two  before  I  go.' 

He  spoke  the  Last  sentence  quickly, 
as  if  he  feared  his  voice  might  fail 
him  before  he  got  to  the  end  of  it, 
and  then  paused  and  looked  hard  at 
the  tablecloth. 

'  Pass  that  beer,'  exclaimed  the 
ever-thirsty  No.  Five,  whose  name, 
by-the-by,  was  Baxter.  '  Young 
Tip,  you're  not  fit  to  live.' 

Tip  took  a  long  pull  himself,  and 
then  passed  the  tankard,  taking  care 
to  keep  well  out  of  reach  of  Baxter's 
arm. 

'  No  man  in  the  College,'  conti- 
nued Thornhill,  raising  his  eyes, 
'  will  ever  leave  it  with  more  regret 
than  I  shall.  I  have  passed  a  hap- 
pier four  years  here  than  I  ever  did 
or  ever  shall  pass  again.  I  have 
made  a  good  many  friends  who  will 
last  me  my  life.'  ('  Hear,  hear,'  and 
'  Rather,  old  fellow,'  from  Baxter.) 
'  And  I  think  that  every  one  here 
at  least  wishes  me  well.'  (Loud 
cheering  all  round  the  room,  in 
which  Wingfield  and  I  joined  with 
great  enthusiasm.)  'I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart  for  your  kind- 
ness,' Thornhill  went  on,  '  and  I'll 
never  forget  it ;  and  wherever  I  may 
be,  I'll  try  and  do  credit  to  the  old 
place.'  Here  every  one  cheered  lus- 
tily, and  then  Thornhill  began 
again  in  a  firmer  tone.  '  And  now, 
gentlemen,  before  I  go,  I  want  to 
say  something  about  the  boating  of 
the  College.  Our  Eight  stands 
higher  on  the  river  now  tlian  it  has 
stood  for  the  last  ten  years  '  (great 
cheering) ;  *  and  with  such  men  as 
Hallett  and  Baxter  to  pull  the  boat 
along,  it  ought  to  go  higher  still.' 
(Hear,  hear.)  'I  wish  to  thank 
those  gentlemen  and  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Eight,  for  the  good  will 
they  have  always  shown  me,  helping 
me,  both  in  the  boat  and  out  of  the 
boat,  to  get  the  Eight  well  up  on 
the  river.  They  have  always  been 
u  2 


292 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford, 


^filling  to  submit  their  jndpmcnt  to 
miuc,  and  have  trained,  with  ono 
or  two  exceptions,  conscientiously 
throughout.'  ('Aha!  Bags,'  said 
Tip,  soito  voce,  to  Baxter,  '  that's 
ono  for  you.  Who  drauk  lx?er  at 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning?')  '  I 
liope  the  next  captain  may  bo  able 
to  say  the  same;  there  is  not  a 
grander  thing  to  be  seen  in  tlio 
worl'l  than  a  set  of  men  yielding 
obedience  of  tlieir  own  free  will  to  a 
ruler  of  their  own  choosing.  Depend 
upon  it,  if  all  thomeij  of  the  College 
■work  well  together,  and  keep  up 
good  training  and  discipline,  the 
lx)at  will  go  to  the  head  of  the  river, 
and  the  reputation  of  the  College  all 
round  will  rise  with  it.  You  may  be 
sure,  when  I  am  out  in  India,  that  I 
shall  watch  eagerly  fur  any  news  of 
the  College,  and  the  College  boat; 
and  shan't  I  make  a  rush  at  "  Bell's 
Life,"  whenev<r  I  get  a  chance,  to 
see  what  the  Eights  arc  doing!  If 
I  could  only  see  our  boat  row  head 
of  the  river,  I  think  I  shouldn't 
mind  if  I  died  the  next  minute.' 

Then  Thornhill  sat  down,  and  the 
cheering  was  long  and  loud.  When 
it  wa.s  over,  we  proceeded  to  the 
election  of  a  new  captain.  A  slip  of 
paper  was  handed  round  on  which 
each  wrote  the  name  of  the  man  he 
considered  littcst  for  the  captaincy. 

'  I  shall  vote  for  Ilallett,'  said  I 
to  Winglield.  '  He's  the  right  man, 
isn't  he?  Stroke  of  the  Eight,  you 
know.' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know,'  returned 
Wingfield.  'I  rather  think  I  .shall 
vote  for  Percy,  the  little  man  they 
call  "Tip;"  he  steered  the  'Var.-ity 
Eight ;  Hallet  is  not  a  'Varsity  oar.' 

I  think  Wingfield  had  a  secret 
ambition  to  steer  the  'Varsity  Eight 
himself,  and  wished  to  create  a  pre- 
cedent for  his  own  election  to  the 
captaincy;  ajid  jKirhaps  there  was  a 
similar  feelinu'  in  my  own  secret 
bosom,  when  I  voted  for  Ilallett. 
The  voting-pa|Krs  were  now  col- 
lected, and  Thornhill  aimounced  the 
result—'  Mr.  Hall,  tt  is  elected  by  a 
large  majority.'  Then  ho  retired 
and  seated  himself  in  a  quiet  corner 
by  Baxter,  and  Ilallett  took  the  chair 
amid  hearty  cheering. 

'  Gentlemen,'  said  Hallett,  rising 
as  fcoou    as  there  wa.s  a  calm,  '  I 


thank  you  with  all  my  heart  for  tho 
honour  you  have  conferred  upoti 
me,  the  greatest  honour  you  could 
confer,  and  one  that,  I  don't  mind 
saying,  I  have  wishi^d  for  many  and 
many  a  time.  I  hope  I  sliall  do 
credit  to  the  post— at  any  rat  ■  I'll 
try.'  ('Of  course  you  will, old  boy,' 
from  Baxter.)  'However,  I  won't 
make  any  promises  now,  but  just  say 
a  word  about  old  Tliorrdiill,  who  is 
leaving  us.  Most  of  us  here  know 
him  well ;  and  I  can  tell  those  who 
don't,  that  he's  the  best  man,  the 
truest  friend,  and  the  pluckiest  oar 
that  ever  stepped.  His  rowing  last 
year  at  Putney.  lx)w  of  the  Eight, 
was  a  treat  to  see,  and  he  was  tho 
only  man  in  the  boat  whose  back 
was  as  straight  as  a  board  when 
tho  boat  passed  Hammersmith 
Bridge.  I  have  often  heard  it  saiil, 
"Oh,  everybody  knows,  Thornhill 
is  the  best  oar  in  Oxford  for  his 
size."'  ('Wouldn't  you  like  that 
to  he  said  of  you?'  said  Wing- 
field to  me.  'Rather!'  I  replied; 
and  all  my  soul  was  in  the  word.) 
'  No  one,'  went  on  Ilallett,  '  ever 
loved  the  College  with  all  his  heart 
like  Charlie  'I'liornhill ;  and  ho  n)ay 
Ix)  sure  the  College  will  not  forget 
him ;  and  whenever  any  success 
turns  uj),  and  we  win  a  prize  or 
gain  a  place  on  the  river,  our  first 
thought  will  Ikj  "  Won't  old  Thorn- 
hill 1)0  pleased  at  this?"  It  will 
keep  his  spirits  up,  if  ever  they  ai'o 
down,  to  know  that  tho  old  ])lace 
remembers  him  kindly,  and  that, 
whenever  his  name  is  mentioned 
among  tho  old  men  who  have  left 
us,  wliether  in  a  toast  at  supper,  or 
over  a  quiet  glass  of  wine,  he  will 
always  ])0  spoken  of  as  "dear  old 
Thornhill."  And  now,  gentlemen, 
let  us  give  him  musical  honours  an(l 
three  times  three.' 

All  ro.se  at  once;  and  Baxter, who 
had  been  patting  Thornhill  on  tho 
back  throughout  llidlett's  speech, 
with  more  or  less  vigour,  according 
to  the  variation  of  his  feelings,  led 
ofT  in  a  stentorian  voice,  with  '  He's 
a  jolly  good  fellow,'  itc,  in  which 
W(!  joined  with  all  our  might.  Then 
followed  such  cheers  as  I  never 
heard  in  all  my  life  Ixiforo,  pro- 
longed till  we  were  all  hoarse,  and 
nearly  deaf.     Thornhill  sat  all  tho 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford, 


293 


lime  in  the  same  corner  by  the  win- 
dow with  a  lialf-smile  on  his  face, 
trjing  not  to  show  the  emotion  ho 
really  felt.  After  the  cheers,  Baxter, 
who  by  this  time  was  getting  ex- 
cited, proposed  '  An  Id  laitg  syne,' 
whicla  was  sung  with  fresh  enthu- 
siasm. Then  every  one  crov.'ded  to 
shake  hands  with  Thoruhill,  and 
wish  him  good-bye ;  and  I,  on  the 
strength  of  having  been  coached  by 
him  two  or  three  times  in  a  tub 
pair-oar,  grasped  his  hand  like  the 
rest,  and  thought  it  the  greatest 
honour  I  ever  received.  Then 
Thoruhill  left  the  room  with  Baxter, 
and  I  saw  something  very  like  a  tear 
in  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  he  went. 
And  so  the  meeting  ended,  and  I 
went  to  my  room  with  a  flashed  face, 
and  a  tumult  of  thoughts  in  my 
brain,  which  kejpt  me  awake  till  near 
morning. 

CHAPTER  n. 

OUR  'torpid.' 

As  few  people,  in  all  probability, 
know  what  is  meant  by  a  '  Torpid,' 
it  may  be  as  well  to  begin  with  a 
brief  explanation  of  that  rather  un- 
attractive term.  There  are  two 
periods  of  the  year  at  which  races 
regularly  take  place  between  the 
eight-oared  boats  of  the  various 
Colleges  in  Oxford,  namely,  March 
and  May.  In  May  crews  formed  of 
the  best  eight  men  that  can  be  got 
together  out  of  each  College,  and 
called  ^la/'  excellence  the  '  Eights,' 
race  against  each  other  for  the  head- 
ship of  the  river,  or  strive  to  come 
as  near  it  as  they  may.  In  March 
the  racing  of  the  second  best  boats 
takes  place:  these  boats  are  the 
*  Torpids.'  Why  so  called  none  can 
tell ;  the  origin  of  the  name  is  veiled 
in  mystery,  which  it  would  seem  to 
the  present  writer  sacrilege  to  at- 
tempt to  penetrate.  No  one  who 
has  rowed  in  his  College  Eight  of 
the  previous  year  is  allowed  to  row 
in  a  Torpid,  so  that  the  Torpid  crews 
are  formed  chiefly  of  the  fresh  blood 
of  the  year,  and,  as  showing  what  is 
the  new  material  in  each  College, 
the  Torpid  races  possess  a  peculiar 
interest  for  the  rowing  community 
of  Oxford.  So  much  for  explana- 
tion, which,  however  necessary,  is 


likely  to  be  dull.  I  shall  now  pro- 
ceed with  the  history  of  the  St. 
Anthony's  Torpid  for  the  year  i8 — . 

We  had  always  been  proud  of  our 
Torpid  ;  I  say  '  we,'  for,  though  at 
the  time  I  si^eak  of  I  w-as  but  a 
freshman,  I  felt  myself  heir  to  all 
the  old  traditions  of  the  college,  and 
a  good  Torpid  was  one  of  the  oldest.  ■ 
Whatever  our  pick  of  men  might 
be,  whatever  bad  luck  we  might 
have — and  we  had  our  share — we 
had  always  worked  hard  and  made 
the  best  of  it;  and  we  could,  and 
often  did  say  with  pride,  that  never 
since  we  first  put  on  a  Torpid  had 
we  fellen  so  low  as  to  take  it  off. 
The  year  before  I  came  up  to  St. 
Anthony's  our  boat  had  moved  up 
from  ninth  to  fifth  on  the  river,  and 
the  prowess  of  the  crew  was  well 
remembered  at  every  festive  gather- 
ing in  the  College.  This  year,  how- 
ever, our  prospects  were  not  of  the 
brightest;  our  best  men  had  been 
drafted  into  the  Eight,  and  the 
freshmen  of  the  year  were  not  a 
promising  lot ;  or,  according  to 
Baxter,  who,  like  most  big  men, 
inclined  to  a  desponding  view  of 
things,  '  no  good  at  all.' 

'  Why,  look  here,  young  'un,'  I 
heard  him  say  to  the  more  sanguine 
Tip,  'I  coached  that  big  lubber 
Wilkinson  every  day  last  term  to 
try  and  make  something  of  him, 
and  all  he  does  now  is  to  put  his 
oar  in  deep,  and  pull  it  out  with  a 
jerk.'* 

'Well  but,  my  dear  fellow,'  re- 
turned Tip,  'all  that  bone  and 
muscle  must  be  got  to  work  some- 
how, and  I'm  sure  the  man's  willing 
enough ;  besides,  just  think  what  an 
awful  duffer  you  were  yourself  when 
you  began  to  row ;  by  Jove,  I  shall 
never  forget  your  plaintive  old  face 
when  Thornhill  was  pitching  into 
you  for  not  keeping  your  arms 
straight!' 

'  No  more  of  that.  Tip,  or  I'll 
scrag  you,'  replied  Baxter,  as  Tip 
began  an  imitation  of  his  first  essay 
in  rowing ;  '  I'll  have  another  turn 
at  the  big  duffer,  but  it's  my  belief 
the  boat  will  be  bumped  three  times 
with  the  crew  we've  got  at  present. 
Come  along ;  it's  time  we  were  down 
at  the  barge.' 

From  the  time  when  Thornhill 


294 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford, 


resipncd,  and  wiid  pood-l))o,  tlic 
boating  Fi)irit  had  entered  dce]»ly 
into  my  sdul,  and  I  made  a  strong 
resolve  that,  if  pei-scverance  and 
haiil  work  eould  do  it,  I  would 
Rorao  day  lu'  a  good  oar.  I  had 
learned  somethinp  about  the  hand- 
ling of  an  oar  on  the  river  near  my 
own  lionie,  and  by  dint  of  liard 
practice  and  plenty  of  eoaching 
achieved  at  lust  what  was  then  the 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart,  a  place  in 
the  St.  Anthony's  Torpid.  Wing- 
fiold,  being  by  far  the  lightest  man 
in  the  College,  and  possessing  that 
quickness  and  self-confidence  which 
is  indispensable  in  a  coxswain,  was 
learning  the  art  of  steering,  and  was 
pretty  sure  to  keep  his  position  in 
the  stern  of  the  Iwat. 

It  wanted  now  three  weeks  to  the 
first  day  of  the  races,  and  I  was 
seated  in  the  window  of  my  rooms, 
which  were  on  the  ground-floor, 
pegging  away  at  ]]mipiiles  for  the 
'  smalls '  that  lo  tnied  in  the  distance, 
wlien  I  was  aware  of  Hallett  and 
Baxter  talking  at  a  short  distance 
from  me. 

'  Have  you  considered,  old  man,' 
began  Baxter,  '  that  it  only  wants 
three  weeks  to  the  races,  and  the 
Torpid's  not  made  up  yet?' 

'  Yes,  I  know.'  replied  Ilallett, 
'  it's  an  awkward  state  of  things ; 
the  men  ought  to  go  into  training 
to-morrow,  but  it's  no  u.se  without 
having  the  crew  settled,  and  espe- 
cially stroke.'  • 

'  Just  so,'  said  Baxter,  rather  in- 
distinctly, for  he  had  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth.  '  Well,  what's  to  be  done? 
Wc  must  try  somebody ;  there's 
Wilkin.sun  will  do  well  enough  for 
five;  I  mu.st  say  he's  tunied  out 
better  than  ever  I  expected,  and 
Vorc  is  pretty  go  id  at  six,  and 
Hilton  makes  a  fair  two,  but  none 
of  them  would  do  for  stroke;.' 

'  Well,  there's  young  Maynard,' 
observed  Hallett,  relleetively ;  at 
that  I  pricked  up  my  ear.s,  and 
KuripidcH  and  smalls  vanished  into 
thiu  air.  '  He's  not  the  lx;st  oar  in 
the  boat,'  continued  Ilallett,  '  but 
he  has  the  most  plutjk  and  poalwut 
him  of  any  ;  suppose  we  try  him  to- 
day. Wlierc<ilio«ts  does  he  hang 
out?  Hallo!'  he  went  on,  in  a 
lower   tone,    '  isn't  that  his  name 


over  the  door  ?  If  he's  in,  ho  must 
have  lieard  all  we've  been  saying.' 
With  that  he  knocked,  and  both 
entered. 

'Good  morning,  Miiynard;  I  ex- 
pect you  heard  what  Baxter  and 
I  were  talking  about  owside.'  I 
turned  rather  red,  and  confessed  I 
had.  '  Well,'  saitl  Hallett,  '  you  see 
we  want  you  to  row  siroko  to-diiy, 
and  if  you  get  on  all  right  we'll 
begin  training  to-morrow.' 

'  You  mustn't  bo  surjiriscd,  you 
know,'  said  Baxter,  '  if  you're  sent 
back  to  your  old  place.' 

'  Oh,  of  course  not,'  replied  I, 
meekly,  'but  I'll  do  the  best  I  cau 
to  keep  my  place  at  stroke.' 

'All  right,'  returned  Hallett; 
'mind  you're  down  in  time— three 
o'clock  sharp,  you  know,'  and  ho 
and  Baxter  left  the  room. 

I  remember,  as  if  it  were  yester- 
day, the  feeling  of  mingled  pride 
and  misgiving  with  which  I  stepped 
into  the  boat  that  afternoon  to  row 
stroke.  I  felt  as  if  all  the  rivor 
would  be  watching  every  turn  of 
my  oar,  and,  as  the  boat  went 
swinging  down  the  stream,  I  fancied 
I  could  hear  the  men  on  the  barges 
saying  to  each  other,  '  Here  comes 
St.  Autlionj's;  so  they've  got  a 
stroke  at  last;  wonder  what  he's 
like.'  Baxter's  voice  on  the  bank, 
however,  soon  recalled  me  to  my 
senses.  'Not  so  quick,  Stroke!' 
'  Keep  your  feather  down!'  '  You're 
missing  the  beginning!'  and  so  on, 
at  intervals,  all  the  way  down. 

At  Ittley  wo  turned  and  began  the 
row  up,  Hallett  and  Baxter,  not  to 
be  .shaken  otT,  keeping  up  a  raking 
fire  from  the  bank.  '  Put  your  back 
into  it,  five.'  '  Mind  the  time, 
three.'  'Slowly  forward,  two.' 
'  Hallo,  Wingfield,  mind  what  you're 
about;  look  ahead,  steer  in  shore; 
by  Jove  there'll  Ik;  a  smash  !'  '  I>ook 
ahead,'  cried  Wingfield,  sudilenly 
jumj)ing  up  in  the  utmost  excite- 
ment.    '  Ea.sy  all !    Hold  her!' 

In  another  second  we  felt  a  shock 
all  through  the  boat;  there  was  a 
cra.'^h  of  oar.s,  and  wo  were  pitched 
head  first  into  the  water. 

'I— can't— swim,'  panted  Wing- 
field, as  became  to  the  surface, and, 
l>efore  I  could  seize  him,  disap- 
pearcd  again.     In  a  few  seconds  the 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


295 


small  head  rose  once  more,  and  this 
time  I  managed  to  grasp  the  little 
man  by  the  collar,  and,  with  some 
trouble,  got  him  astride  of  the  boat, 
which  lay  bottom  upwards  on  the 
water.  The  rest  had  by  this  time 
got  ashore,  and  I  now  followed  them, 
leaving  little  Wingfield,  by  no  means 
sure  of  his  seat,  on  the  boat,  the 
water  streaming  from  him  on  all 
sides,  and  altogether  looking  the 
most  comical  picture  possible.  He 
was  soon  rescued  by  a  punt,  and 
then  wo  all  ran  back  to  our  barge 
to  change  our  wet  flannels  and  keep 
the  cold  off  by  a  nip  of  brandy  at 
the  Boat- House  Tavern. 

'  Well,  Wingfield,  you  made  rather 
a  mess  of  your  steering  just  now,' 
said  Hallett ;  '  you  and  the  cox.  of 
the  other  boat  both  lost  your  heads.* 

Wingfield  looked  very  crest-fallen. 

*  Well,  never  mind,'  said  Hallett ; 
'  how  are  you  now?' 

'  Oh,  all  right,  thank  you.  You 
see,  I  can't  swim,  so  I  was  rather  in 
a  funk  at  the  time.' 

'  Yes,  anybody  could  see  that,'  re- 
marked Tip,  who  had  enjoyed  the 
whole  thing  immensely.  '  When 
you  were  safe  astride  of  the  boat, 
you  looked  just  like  John  Gilpin 
when  his  horse  ran  away.' 

'I  hate  that  fellow  Tip,'  said 
Wingfield  to  me  immediately  after- 
wards, '  don't  you  ?  No,  of  course 
you  don't,  you  never  hate  anybody, 
why  should  you?  It's  only  small 
men  who've  reason  to  hate ;  they're 
obliged  to  do  it  in  self-defence. 
But,  old  fellow,  I  haven't  thanked 
you  yet  for  pulling  me  out  of  a 
watery  grave;  you  may  be  sure  I 
sha'n't  forget  it,  and  I'll  pay  you 
back  some  day  when  I  get  the 
chance.'  I  could  tell  by  the  tone  of 
his  voice  that  he  meant  more  than 
he  said,  and  I  felt  that  from  that 
day  the  httle  '  Torpid'  coxswain  was 
the  firmest  friend  I  had. 

As  we  walked  up  from  the  river, 
Baxter  said, '  Maynard,  we've  settled 
that  you'll  do  for  stroke,  and  the 
crew  is  to  go  into  training  to-mor- 
row. Breakfast  in  Hallett's  rooms 
to-morrow  morning,  and  mind 
everybody  has  a  good  walk  first. 
Wingfield,  you'll  have  to  see  that 
all  the  crew  are  off  to  bed  by  half- 
past  ten.' 


And  so  the  business  of  training 
began,  and  beef  and  mutton  twice 
a  day  was  our  food  for  nearly  a 
month.  I  shall  not  now  enter  into 
the  details  of  that  training;  how 
*  bow'  was  ill,  or  fancied  he  was,  for 
three  days;  how  Vere  was  nearly 
turned  out  of  the  boat  for  being  out 
of  bed  at  midnight;  how  Wilkinson 
turned  sulky,  and  spread  a  spirit  of 
mutiny  among  the  crew;  and  how 
Hilton  once  ate  buttered  toast  for 
breakfast,  and  caper-sauce  with  his 
boiled  mutton,  all  which  particulars, 
however  momentous  in  the  eyes  of 
the  St.  Anthony's  Torpid  then,  would 
doubtless  be  tedious  to  the  general 
reader.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
first  day  of  the  races  found  us  all  in 
excellent  fettle  and  high  spirits,  and 
even  Baxter  was  ftun  to  confess  that 
we  had  improved  immensely  in  the 
last  week,  and  might  make  a  bump 
or  two.  Does  every  body  know  what 
is  meant  by  a  '  bump  ?'  Very  likely 
not.  So,  at  the  risk  of  being  con- 
sidered a  bore,  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  to  explain. 

The  Torpid  races  are  conducted 
in  the  manner  following.  At  the 
part  of  the  river  where  the  start 
takes  place  a  number  of  posts  are 
placed  along  the  bank  i6o  feet  apart, 
and  by  one  of  these  each  boat  takes  its 
station  according  to  the  order  of  the 
previous  year,  the  head  boat  being 
highest  up  the  river,  the  second  1 60 
feet  behind  it,  and  so  on  to  the  last. 
To  each  post  a  rope  is  made  fast, 
one  end  of  which,  having  a  large 
bung  attached,  is  held  by  the  cox- 
swain of  the  boat.  When  the  start- 
ing-gun fires,  the  bungs  are  dropped, 
and  each  boat  starts  in  pursuit  of 
the  one  before  it.  Any  boat  over- 
taking another,  so  as  to  touch  any 
part  of  it,  makes  a  '  bump.'  Both 
boats  lay  to  out  of  the  way  of  those 
behind,  and  on  the  following  day 
the  '  bumping'  boat  takes  its  station 
above  the  'bumped,'  and  tries  to 
overtake  the  next  boat,  and  so  on 
through  the  six  days  of  the  races. 
With  this  explanation  the  reader 
will,  I  trust,  understand  the  par- 
ticular races  I  am  about  to  de- 
scribe. 

At  two  o'clock  on  one  of  those 
damp, '  muggy '  days,  which  are  only 
too  common  in  Oxford,  the  St.  An- 


Db 


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lip  aft 


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likavetoBiwn 


■ofteaM.    Halktti 


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tel        'five 

'Urn  aeoBfti  0na»— 15,  »o,  as, 
)a^35.4ot'   'IMila«9>all- 
— aiBj^r^w'— ^45^J«.'.    * 

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toaTrLewiaAiKvaHkr.     -f  ss,' mi  ^  hemm  til 


Ba^img  Life  ti  Q^lari,  ST 


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ttwiijihiiig,  cvcB  of  ths 
lad^  aad  I  b^m  to 

wlKteivflkMs.'  ^  'ayf  Oe  lifcr  li 

I  urndbmei,  a^  «h^  A-4  On  lOai 

r;  t 


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pat  am.  mBocl 


kecri&f 


298 


MODERN  BEAU  BRUMMELLISM. 


BEAU  BRU.MMKLL  was  tho 
dandy  of  his  day,  and  a  dandy  of 
a  peculiar  kiud.  Etymologists  toll  us 
that  tho  word  '  dandy '  is  derived 
from  tlie  French  'la!f/iii,OT  '  nijiny/ 
or  from  tho  Italian  (lani/olu,oT  '  toy.' 
Henco  a  damly  means  one  who 
dresses  himself  like  a  doll,  a  fop,  a 
coxcomb,  a  ninny.  The  peculiar 
type  which  was  especially  repre- 
sented by  the  famous  Brummell  was 
combined  with  an  amount  of -fasti- 
diousness and  helplessness  to  which 
there  is  no  parallel.  Ho  was  a  re- 
markable instance  of  a  man  pushing 
himself  into  a  grade  of  society  to 
which  he  had  no  claim,  by  dint  of  a 
certain  amount  of  assurance  and  a 
high  estimation  of  himself.  There 
is  nothing  more  true  than  the  say- 
ing that  the  world  takes  a  man  at 
the  value  he  sets  upon  himself.  Ho 
who  depreciates  himself  by  a  humi- 
lity, whether  true  or  false,  will  not 
be  esteemed  by  the  world  at  largo. 
The  dealer  who  cries  '  stinking  lish' 
is  not  likely  to  tind  much  custom 
for  his  wares.  Let  a  man  assert 
himself,  and  lay  claim  to  a  certain 
amount  of  wisdom,  and  talk  like  an 
oracle,  and  the  chances  are  that,  un- 
less he  is  a  fool,  the  world,  having 
neither  time  nor  inclination  to  go  into 
the  matter,  will  take  him  at  his  own 
valuation.  It  only  requires  perse- 
verance, an  indomitable  will,  and  in- 
ordinate self  esteem,  combined  with 
a  certain  amount  of  tact,  which,  in 
this  instance,  might'  almost  be 
better  called  an  instinct  of  self-pre- 
servation, which  prevents  a  man 
from  showing  the  cards  which  he 
holds  in  his  own  hands.  Some  peo- 
ple are  easily  imposed  upon  by 
silence,  and  are  aj)t  to  attribute 
depth  of  learning  and  profundity  of 
thought  to  the  man  who  is  silent, 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  has 
nothing  to  say.  Coleridge  says, 
'  Silence  does  not  always  mark  wis- 
dom :'  and  goes  on  to  relate  an 
anecaote  in  illustration.  '  I  was  at 
dinner,  some  time  ago,  in  comj)any 
with  a  man  who  listened  to  me  and 
said  nothing  for  a  long  time ;  but 
ho  nodiled  his  head,  and  I  thought 
him  intelligent.  At  length,  towards 
tho  end  of  duiner,  some  apple  dump- 


lings were  placed  on  tho  table,  and 
my  man  had  no  sooner  seen  them 
than  he  burst  forth  with  "  Them's 
tho  jockeys  for  me!"  He  destroyed 
whatever  pridujc  he  had  acquired 
by  his  silence  by  showing  his  folly.' 
Had  ho  remained  silent,  Coleridge 
might  have  continued  to  think  him 
intelligent.  The  man  who  is  wise 
enough  to  keej)  his  own  counsel 
while  ho  lays  claim  to  superior  gifts, 
will  probal)ly  get  credit  for  all  ho 
claims.  In  Brummell  we  have  a 
remarkable  instance  of  a  man  valued 
according  to  his  own  estimate  of 
himself.  Possessing  no  great  mental 
gifts,  he  worked  his  way  into  tho 
highest  ranks  of  society,  until  he 
camo  into  the  very  presence  of 
royalty,  where  he  made  himself  ne- 
cessary by  the  force  of  will,  assurance, 
and  self-coneeit,  which  had  already 
obtaiced  for  him  so  great  a  reputa- 
tion, that  to  be  spoken  to  by  Brum- 
mell, and  to  dress  like  him,  was  the 
ambition  of  all  the  dandies  of  tho 
day.  No  doubt  he  po.s.ses.sed  great 
graces  of  the  body,  as  well  as  the 
natural  gift  of  an  almost  faultless 
taste:  otherwi.so  it  would  bo  impos- 
sible fully  to  account  for  tho  com- 
pleteness of  his  success  while  he 
basked  in  the  sunshine  of  royal 
favour.  He  was  tho  very  type  of 
dandies, 

'  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Frcbh  as  a  bridcgruom     .     .     . 

•  •  •  • 

He  was  perfumed  like  n  milliner, 

And  'inl.Nt  \\\s  linger  and  liis  thumb  he  held 

A  pouncet-bo.x,  which  ever  and  anon 

lie  gave  his  nose,  and  toolt  't  away  again.' 

Stories  without  end  are  told  of  him, 
all  pointing  to  him  as  the  great 
oracle  in  dress.  No  lady  ever  re- 
quired the  attention  of  her  hand- 
maid more  than  Ihummell  demanded 
the  a.ssi.^tance  of  his  valet  during 
the  tedious  oj)erati()n  of  his  toilet. 
The  great  secret  of  tying  a  cravat 
was  known  only  to  Brummell  and 
his  set;  and  it  is  reported  of  him 
that  his  servant  was  seen  to  leave 
his  presence  with  a  largo  quantity 
of  tumbled  cravats,  which,  on  l)eing 
interrogated,  he  said  were  '  failures,' 
so  important  were  cravats  in  tlioso 
days,  and  so   critical  the  tying  of 


Modern  Beau  Brummellism. 


299 


them.  His  fastidiousness  and  help- 
lessness are  exhibited  side  by  side  in 
this  anecdote.  The  one  that  there 
should  have  been  so  many  '  failures' 
before  he  could  be  satisfied;  the 
other,  that  he  should  have  required 
the  assistance  of  a  valet,  or,  indeed, 
of  any  hand  except  his  own  in  tying 
it. 

This  fastidiousness  and  helpless- 
ness are  not,  however,  confined  to 
any  age.  Indolence,  conceit,  love  of 
dress,  and  helplessness,  will  always 
exist  so  long  as  we  have  bodies  to 
pamper  and  to  deck.  There  will 
alwajs  be  men  who  devote  much 
time  and  thought  to  their  personal 
appearance,  who  '  shine  so  brisk, 
and  smell  so  sweet,  and  talk  so  like 
a  waiting  gentlewoman ;'  men  who 
try  on  coat  after  coat,  and  waistcoat 
after  waistcoat,  that  their  effect  may 
be  faultless  ;  who  consider  harmony 
of  colour,  and  the  cut  of  a  coat,  or 
the  fit  of  a  shoe  or  a  boot,  matters 
of  the  greatest  moment  in  life ;  who, 
whether  beardless  boys  or  elderly 
men,  never  pass  a  looking-glass 
without  stealing  sly  glances  at  them- 
selves, and  never  move  except  with 
care  and  caution,  lest  the  arrange- 
ment of  their  hair,  or  some  portion 
of  their  toilet,  should  be  marred. 
The  elderly  dandies  study  to  be 
bien  conserves,  while  the  younger 
ones  care  only  never  to  be  behind 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  be  it  what  it 
may.  In  a  certain  listlessness  of 
manner  they,  like  Brummell,  de- 
mand the  constant  attention  of  a 
valet.  They  require  him  to  stand 
behind  them  and  arrange  the  part- 
ing of  their  hair  at  the  back  of  the 
head  and  to  smoothe  it,  to  make  the 
collar  and  tie  tie  well,  to  tighten  the 
waistcoat,  and  put  on  the  coat  artisti- 
cally, and  press  out  any  creases,  to 
put  the  right  quantity  of  perfume 
on  the  hankerchief,  and,  in  tine,  to 
be  responsible  for  their  appearance. 
These  dandies  cannot  lace  or  unlace 
their  own  boots ;  they  cannot  take 
off  their  own  coat ;  and  never  for  a 
moment  dream  of  packing  their  own 
clothes,  or  of  looking  after  their  own 
luggage  when  they  travel.  They 
look  for,  expect,  and  demand  an 
amount  of  attention  which  any,  who 
do  not  happen  to  be  somewhat  be- 
hind  the   scenes,  would   suppose 


none  but  the  most  helpless  of  women 
would  require.  It  by  no  means  fol- 
lows tbat  they  have  been  brought 
up  in  such  Sybarite  habits.  Love 
of  ease,  love  of  self-importance,  or  a 
mistaken  idea  that  it  indicates  high 
breeding,  have  led  to  this  unman- 
liness.  There  is  no  greater  mistake 
than  to  suppose  that  they  who  have 
been  most  accustomed  to  what  are 
called  the  luxuries  of  life  from  their 
very  cradle  are  the  most  dependent 
upon  them.  Perhaps  some  of  the 
most  independent  men  are 'to  be 
found  among  those  who  have  all 
their  lives  been  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  every  comfort,  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  they  who  have  come  into 
possession  of  them  only  recently, 
and  by  a  lucky  stroke  of  fortune,  lay 
the  most  stress  upon  them,  and  are 
very  tenacious  of  them,  as  if  the 
secret  of  true  happiness  were  bound 
up  in  them.  Nothing  illustrates 
this  more  than  the  noblo  and  manly 
way  in  which  some  of  those  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  very 
lap  of  luxury  bore  the  hardships  and 
adversities  of  a  soldier's  life  during 
the  war  in  the  Crimea.  Then  it  was 
that  the  true  metal  showed  itself ; 
that  good  blood  proved  itself  by 
noble  deeds. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  it  would 
be  difficult  to  devise  anything  more 
hideous  or  unbecoming  than  the 
dress  of  a  gentleman  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  It  may  be  easy  and 
comfortable,  and  a  wider  margin 
may  be  allowed  to'  the  caprice  of 
individuals ;  but,  in  all  its  forms,  it 
is  ugly  and  deficient  in  both  pic- 
turesque and  pictorial  effect.  One 
of  the  great  charms  of  Vandyke's 
pictures,  apart,  of  course,  from  their 
exquisite  painting,  lies  in  the  dress. 
They  are  all  such  courtly  gentle- 
men, and  one  feels  to  be  in  such 
good  company  as  one  admires  them. 
Theirs  was  no  fancy  dress  put  on 
for  the  occasion,  no  special  dandyism, 
but  the  ordinary  dress  of  the  times, 
such  as  men  of  their  rank  and  posi- 
tion were  accustomed  to  wear. 
There  was  much  more  etiquette  in 
dress  formerly  than  now  exists,  just 
as  there  was  much  more  formality 
in  all  they  did.  Euffles  and  buckles, 
silk  hose  and  doublets,  were  not 
adopted  specially  by  any  one  more 


800 


Modem  Beau  BrummellUm. 


devoted  than  his  nciglilxjiirs  to  the 
love  and  science  of  dress.  Men  and 
women  were  more  courteous  to  one 
another,  outwardly  at  least,  than 
they  now  are.  Children  rose  up  at 
the  entrance  of  their  parents,  and 
did  not  resume  their  scats  while 
they  were  standing.  No  man  would 
address  any  lady  in  public  with  his 
bead  covered.  Young  men  would 
take  oflF  their  hats  even  to  their 
equals,  always  to  their  ciders.  The 
old  mi II lift  (/'■  la  cour  was  a  very 
sedate  kind  of  dance  compared  with 
those  of  the  present  day.  If  we 
have  gained  in  freedom,  wc  have 
lost  a  great  deal  of  outward  mutual 
respect.  Much  of  what  we  mean 
still  remains  on  the  Continent,  where 
there  is  a  considerable  distinction 
between  the  various  cla.sses  in 
matters  of  dress.  The  peasant  has 
his  or  her  style,  and  the  nobles  theirs, 
while  the  intermediate  classes  have 
their  distinctive  styles.  These  dis- 
tinctions are  now  abolished.  We 
have  no  national  costume ;  and  tho 
lowest  menials  endeavour  to  imitate, 
to  the  best  of  their  powers,  the 
grandest  lords  and  ladies  in  the 
land. 

It  would  be  a  great  mistake  to 
infer,  from  the  pictures  which  have 
been  handed  down  to  us,  that  there 
wa.s  more  dandyism  formerly  than 
now.  Who  would  lay  anything  of  the 
kind  to  the  charge  of  Lord  Nelson? 
Yet  we  find  him  rojiresented  to  us, 
in  paintings  descriptive  of  his  great 
naval  actions,  dressed  in  knee- 
breeches,  silk  stockings,  and  all  the 
accessories  of  a  court  dress. 

It  was  tho  cu'itora  which  pre- 
vailed at  that  period,  and  is  by  no 
means  a  fashion  in  the  eensq  in 
which  tho  word  is  used  to  denote 
super-excellence  and  super-fastidi- 
ousness in  dress.  At  the  death  of 
Lord  Nelson  the  oflicers  who  sur- 
rounded that  great  hero  are  de- 
picted dressed  according  to  tho 
cuBtorn  which  was  iis  much  de 
ri{)uenr  as  it  is  now  for  officers  in 
the  army  and  navy  to  put  on  their 
uniforms  when  they  go  jnto  the 
presence  of  royalty.  To  compare 
small  things  with  great,  W(!  find 
that     Ijord    Winchil.seA's     Pvlevtm 

£layod    at    cricket    in   silver-laewl 
atfi,  knee-breeches,  and  silk  stock- 


ings. Bumps  and  even  blood  would 
occasionally  show  and  come  through 
the  stockings;  and  it  is  related  of 
one  man  that  ho  tore  a  finger-nail 
off  against  his  shoe-buckle  in  pick- 
ing up  a  ball !  There  must  have 
been  a  very  different  kind  of  bowl- 
ing then  to  that  which  now  ]irevails, 
if  wo  may  judge  from  the  necessity 
for  pails  of  all  kinds  and  descrip- 
tions, and  when,  in  spite  of  pads 
and  gloves,  fingers  and,  occasion- 
ally, even  legs  are  broken  by  the 
excessive  violence  of  the  bowling. 

The  formality  and  courtliness  in 
dress  wliich  existed  even  to  so  late 
a  period  as  that  to  which  we  have 
referred,  may  bo  said  to  have  gone 
out  with  hoops  and  powder.  Our 
ancestoi's,  no  doid>t,  deplored  the 
changes  which  took  place  in  their 
days,  and  sighed  over  the  intro- 
duction of  novelties,  and  tho  free- 
dom or  license,  as  it  may  be  called, 
in  dress  in  our  times  would  have 
shocked  their  sense  of  propriety, 
for  we  find  an  amusing  account  in 
the  '  Spectator'  of  tlie  alai-m  felt  at 
tho  way  in  which  ladies  dressed 
themselves  for  riding,  '  in  a  hat 
and  feather,  a  riding-coat  and  peri- 
wig, or  at  least  tying  up  their  hair 
in  a  bag  or  riband,  in  imitation  of 
the  smart  part  of  the  op])osite  sex,' 
which  the  astonished  countryman 
described  as  '  a  gentleman  in  a  coat 
and  hat.' 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a 
certain  amount  of  attention  to  dress 
is  necessary  so  far  as  it  effects  per- 
sonal cleanliness  and  neatness.  A 
welbtlres.sed  man,  that  is  to  say,  a 
man  wlio  dresses  like  a  gentleman, 
neither  like  a  fop,  nor  a  clerk,  nor 
a  tailor  who  makes  his  own  back 
his  adverii.sement,  is  sure  to  be  well 
received  in  all  good  society.  Gold- 
smith says  tliat  '  Processions,  ca- 
valcades, and  all  that  fund  of  gay 
frippery  furnished  out  by  tailors, 
barbers,  and  tirewomen,  mecha- 
nically influence  the  mind  into 
veneration;  an  emperor  in  his 
nightcap  would  not  meet  with  half 
the  respect  of  an  emperor  with  a 
crown.'  The  only  complaint  made 
agninst  our  gracious  Queen,  when 
she  visited  Ireland,  by  some  of  her 
poor  Iri^h  suiijects  was,  that  '  sho 
was  dressed  like  any  other  lady,  and 


Modern  Beau  Brummellism. 


301 


had  no  crown  on  her  head.'  There 
is  much  woildly  wisdom  in  paying 
some  heed  to  the  adornment  of  the 
outer  man.  It  is  a  good  letter  of 
introduction ;  but  when  it  goes  be- 
yond that,  and  branches  out  into 
excesses  of  foppery,  it  becomes  un- 
manly, and,  as  such,  cannot  be  too 
mucli  condemned.  When  young 
men  are  either  so  helples-s  or  fas- 
ti(iious  that  the  constant  presence 
of  a  valet  during  their  toilet  is  a 
sine  qua  non ;  that  the  parting  at  the 
back  of  the  head  requires  as  much 
attention  as  a  lady's  '  back  hair ;' 
it  is  time,  indeed,  that  some  such 
satirist  as  the  old  '  Spectator' 
should  rise  up  and  turn  them  into 
ridicule. 

But  of  all  the  fops  in  existence, 
the  old  fop  is  the  most  contemptible. 
A  man  who  has  outlived  his  gene- 
ration ;  who  trips  like  Agag  '  deli- 
cately,' to  hide  the  infirmities  of 
age,  or  affect  a  youth  that  has  long 
ceased;  who  competes  with  the 
young  men  of  the  day  in  his  atten- 
tions to  the  fair  sex ;  who  dresses  in 
the  very  extreme  of  the  prevailing 
fashion  of  the  day,  with  shirts  ela- 
borately embroidered,  and  wrist- 
bands, fastened  together  with  con- 
spicuously magnificent  sleeve-links, 
which  he  is  always  pulling  down, 
either  to  show  them  or  to  establish 
the  fact,  which  no  one  would  care 
to  dispute,  that  he  has  a  clean  shirt 
to  his  back ;  who  is  scented  and 
perfumed ;  whose  wig,  faultlessly 
made,  is  judiciously  sprinkled  with 
a  few  grey  hairs  that  it  may  appear 
to  be  his  own  hair  when  he  has 
long  ceased  to  have  any  to  boast  of ; 
who  uses  dyes  and  cosmetics  that 
the  marks  of  age  may  be  obliterated 
and  the  bloom  of  youth  imitated ; 
who  is  in  a  flutter  of  delight  when 
any  one  conversant  with  his  weak- 
ness is  kind  enough  to  mistake  him 
for  his  own  son  or  the  husband 
of  one  of  his  daughters;  such  a 
man  is  an  object  of  both  pity  and 
contempt.  VVlien  age  is  not  ac- 
companied by  wisdom,  but  exhibits 
only  the  folly  of  which  man's  weak- 
ness is  capable,  it  is  a  hopeless 
case. 

Dirty  fops  are  an  especial  abo- 
mination. Men,  young  or  old,  who 
are  at  great  pains  to  adorn  them- 


selves without  the  most  scrupulous 
regard  to  cleanliness;  who  wear 
many  rings  upon  very  indifferently 
washed  fingers ;  who  hang  them- 
selves in  chains  of  gold ;  whose 
shirt  fronts  present  the  greatest 
variety,  at  different  times,  of  the 
most  costly  jewellery ;  whose  dis- 
coloured teeth  and  ill- brushed  hair 
are  a  revelation  in  themselves, — 
such  men  only  make  their  defect 
the  more  conspicuous  by  the  deco- 
rations with  which  they  overlay  it. 
It  is  related  of  a  grande  dame  who 
was  remarkable  for  her  wit  and 
beauty,  that  she  rejected  a  man  of 
considerable  note  in  the  world,  as 
well  as  an  '  exquisite,'  of  his  day, 
and  who  was  one  of  her  most  de- 
voted admirers,  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  she  saw  ensconced  be- 
tween his  teeth,  when  he  made  his 
appearance  at  breakfast,  a  piece  of 
spinach  which  she  had  noticed  the 
evening  before.  It  is  impossible 
for  any  one,  whether  man,  woman, 
or  child,  to  be  too  particular  about 
cleanliness  of  person  and  of  habits. 
In  these  days,  when  there  are  such 
facilities  for  washing,  and  when  all 
appliances  are  so  easy  of  attainment, 
it  is  perfectly  inexcusable  in  any 
one  to  fail  in  cleanliness  ;  and  of  all 
people,  the  fop,  who  professes  to 
make  his  person  his  study,  is  the 
most  inexcusable  if  he  neglect  the 
fundamental  principle  of  dandyism, 
which  is,  in  fact,  its  chief,  if  not  its 
only  recommendation. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  youth 
who  is  not  more  or  less  a  dandy, 
will  grow  into  an  untidy,  slovenly 
man.  There  may  be  some  truth  in 
this.  Indeed,  we  should  be  sorry  to 
see  any  young  man  altogether  in- 
different about  his  personal  appear- 
ance. It  is  not  that  which  offends. 
It  is  rather  the  excess  to  which  it  is 
carried ;  when  self  becomes  the 
all-absorbing  subject  upon  which 
thought,  time,  and  labour  are  spent ; 
when  it  degenerates  into  foppery, 
into  an  effeminacy,  into  a  certain 
listlessness,  helplessness,  and  affec- 
tation which  are  unwortlay  of  a  man. 
It  is  finicalness  of  dandyism,  and 
not  its  neatness  and  cleanliness,  that 
we  quarrel  with,  on  the  principle 
that  whatever  detracts  from  manli- 
ness is  unworthy  of  a  man. 


802 


THE  SOCIETY  OF  FEMALE  ARTISTS. 


THE  art  of  reviewinp:  works  of 
linnian  skill  ftiid  inilnstry  with 
the  least  jxissidle  ninouiit  of  trouble 
to  the  critic  would  make  a  curious 
treatise,  and  ]ierhaps  add  a  new 
chapter  to  the  '  Curiosities  of  Litera- 
ture' To  cut  up  a  book  without 
onttinp  its  papes;  to  notice  a  new 
play  without  Fciing  it;  to  criticise 
an  opera  witliout  a  knowledge  of 
thorough  bass,  or  even,  perhaps,  of 
music,  would,  no  doubt,  be  excel- 
lent practice  for  the  imagination  and 
the  display  of  ingenuity,  but  by  no 
means  conducive  to  the  purity  of 
tliose  laws  which  are  supposed  to 
govern  the  republic  of  letters,  though 
the  system  has  been  tried  before 
now  ;  and  if  tliis  short  article  were 
an  essay  upon  criticism  instead  of  a 
brief  criticism  upon  the  pictorial 
essays  of  female  artists,  we  might  be 
able  to  givo  our  readers  more  than 
one  illustration  of  the— shall  we  say 
— '  gay  science'  of  /v-viewing  with- 
out viewing  at  all !  Indeed,  the  ex- 
periment of  importing  the  semblance 
of  truth  to  mere  guess-work  has  its 
temptations ;  and  at  this  moment  it 
were  quite  possilile  to  write  a  criti- 
cism, more  or  less  elaborate,  upon 
the  pictures  exhibited  by  the  Society 
of  Female  Artists  without  seeing 
them,  in  which  case  it  may  interest 
the  sceptic  to  know  how  such  a  piece 
of  literary  prestidigitation  could  be 
accomplished,  and  nothing  more 
tasy  when  the  art  is  once  known. 
We  should  commence  by  a  general 
onslaught  on  all  such  minor  institu- 
tions as  that  under  notice,  terming 
them,  in  coinparison  with  the  great 
Conservatory  Kxhiliitions  of  London, 
the  little  forcing-frames  of  the  nur- 
sery grounds  which  encourage  the 
precocious  sea- kale,  or  protect  the 
delicate  Feedling.  Tlien,  guided  by 
the  catalfigue  Iwrrowed  of  hoino 
friend,  we  should  select  those  works 
tor  especial  praise  against  which  are 
affixed  the  liighcst  prices;  and  after 
lauding  Idisa  Bonheur's  sketch  of 
'  Doc  and  Fawns  in  the  Fon  st  of 
Fontaincbleau'  as  a  very  safe  critical 
venture,  wc  should  go  on,  trusting 
to  a  delicate  instinct  for  feeling  in 


the  dark,  to  sneer  at,  condemn,  and 
depreciate  all  the  less  pretentious 
works,  interlarding  our  remarks 
witlictrtain  technical  plu'ases  which 
would  at  once  jirove  us  as  speaking 
ex  rathiilra,  but  at  the  same  time, 
careful  lest  we  should  seem  to  forget 
the  dictum  that  'art  is  di.'licult  — 
criticism  easy,'  we  should  asct  rtain 
what  pictures  had  been  v</«/,  and 
armed  with  this  valuable  knowledge, 
wc  should  sing  '  lo  Poeans '  in  their 
praises  without  stint  or  limit. 

Thus,  with  only  a  slight  know- 
ledge of  the  critic's  legerdemain,  we 
could  write  a  capital  notice ;  and 
wlio  would  possibly  surmi.sc  it  was 
inspired  and  'thrown  off'  in  the 
coffee-room  of  an  hotel  fifty  miles 
from  the  great  brick-and-mortar  and 
stucco  Polypus  called  London? 

All  this  knowledge,  however,  of 
playing  the  game  of  speculation,  or 
of  a  sort  of  literary  blind  man's  buflF, 
is  useless  in  our  especial  case,  owing 
to  the  fact  that  wc  regard  the  Society 
of  Female  Arti.sts  with  sentiments  of 
respect,  and  from  the  belief  that  it 
is  worthy  of  honest  encouragement; 
more  especially  when  we  consider 
the  exclusivencss  of  the  two  water- 
colour  societies,  wlio  decline  to  have 
any  more  fi  male  members,  and  the 
slender  chances  of  artists'  unknown 
works  finding  admittance  to  the  Royal 
Academy.  The  Soiicty  dates  from 
about  1857,  and  for  the  first  six 
years  was  maiiagtd  l)y  lady  patron- 
esses, but  failed  for  want  of  healthy 
organization.  On  the  committee  of 
ladies  retiring  from  the  direction, 
the  artists  appointed  an  excellent 
secretary,  and  exerted  themselves  to 
procure  a  good  galieiy,  which,  thanks 
to  the  liberal  treatment  of  the  Insti- 
tute of  Architects,  they  have  o\>- 
tained;  they  al.M)  instituted  a  class 
for  studying  from  living  models,  and 
raised  sufficient  funds  to  make  a 
fresh  start.  All  this  is  most  praise- 
worthy ;  and  it  now  only  rests  with 
the  artists  themselves  to  render,  by 
the  nature  of  the  works  they  exhibit 
every  succeeding  year,  a  fresh  record 
of  exertions  and  of  success. 

In  respect  to  tlic  works  at  present 


TJie  Sociefy  of  Female  Artists. 


803 


on  the  walls  of  the  Exhibition,  if  we 
take  a  quiet  stroll  round  the  room, 
beginning  at  the  lowest  number,  and 
proceeding  leisurely  on,  wo  may  be 
able,  perhapi,  to  arrive  at  a  fair  con- 
clusion as  to  their  merits  in  detail,  as 
well  as  forae  idea  of  the  Exhibition 
as  a  whole. 

The  first  picture  that  we  pause  at. 
No.  28,  by  Miss  C.  James,  is  a  very 
■unambitious  one,  but  withal  de- 
serves especial  remark.  It  is  called 
*  The  Last  of  the  Season,'  and  con- 
eistsof  a  bouquet  of  chrysanthemums 
BO  daintily  painted,  that  we  hope  its 
title  will,  for  many  a  long  year  to 
come,  only  apply  to  the  subject  the 
artist  selects,  and  not  to  her  works. 
'The  Minster,  from  Bootham  Bar, 
York'  (No.  29),  by  IMiss  L.  Eayner, 
is  very  nearly  the  host  picture  in  the 
collection,  if  not  the  best  of  its  kind. 
The  light  at  the  cud  of  the  street, 
the  perspective,  the  foreground,  and 
evident  painstaking  in  the  entire 
composition,  will  well  repay  a 
thorough  examination.  '  Magnolias,' 
by  Mss  Lane  (No.  41),  is  very 
clever ;  and  though,  as  a  rule, 
flowers  are  not  considered  market- 
able, we  confess  to  an  especial  plea- 
sure in  the  portrait-taking  of  these 
lovely  ere  itions.  Sauntering  on,  we 
come  to  No.  43,  '  Gorge  of  Pfeilfers, 
near  Ragatz,  in  Switzerland,'  by 
Mrs.  Mairabie,  who  contributes  no 
less  than  fifteen  pictures  to  the  Ex- 
hibition !  There  is  a  boldness  and 
decision  about  the  v/orks  of  this  lady 
very  remarkable  in  an  amateur,  and 
she  has  the  good  sense  and  artistic 
feeling  to  escape  conventionalities, 
and  copy  direct  from  Nature.  There 
is  nothing  so  offensive  to  true  art, 
nothing  so  fatal  to  genius,  as  the  in- 
dulgences of  j>re^(!«He.sses  of  all  sorts; 
while  the  boldness  to  seek  Nature, 
and  courage  to  limn  her  in  all  her 
moods,  without  fear  and  without 
ceremony,  is  one  of  the  rarest  gifts. 
The  rough  crag  and  brawling  torrent 
become  too  often  the  smonth  cliff 
and  purling  stream,  just  as,  in  por- 
trait painting,  the  masterly  sketch 
and  vigorous  outline  is  rendered, 
with  a  smile  of  complacency,  as  the 
tea-board  picture,  all  finished  and 
decorous.  A  determination  to  paint 
scenery  as  it  is,  with  no  attempt  to 
sublimate  it  with  pretty  trickeries. 


is  especially  apparent  in  the  more 
ambitious  of  Mrs.  Marrable's  pro- 
ductions, which  we  consider  a  far 
better  augury  for  her  future  artistic 
career  than  the  possession  of  talents 
more  striking  and  clap-trappish. 
The  faults  most  perceptible  in  the 
works  of  this  lady  are  the  absence  of 
a  delicacy  of  tints  required  for  dis- 
tance, the  lack  of  aerial  per.'^pective, 
and  a  general  want  of  transparency 
in  her  colouring  where  transparency 
is  needed;  and  also,  we  should  say, 
a  neglect  of  the  minor  details  of  her 
pictures,  which  your  true  artist  is  as 
jealous  of  as  the  rest  of  the  work. 
But  these  are  secondary  or  mechani- 
cal faults,  which  thought,  labour,  and 
a  love  of  her  art — which  latter  she 
evidently  possesses — will  overcome. 
'  The  Study  of  a  Head  '  (No.  54),  by 
Bldme.  Henriette  Brown;  'Streatly 
Church,  from  the  Thames '  (No.  59), 
by  Miss  Warren ;  '  The  Knitting 
Lesson  '  (No.  81),  by  Adelaide  Bur- 
gess ;  are  all  deserving  of  especial 
notice ;  while  '  Arlington  Church, 
Sussex '  (No.  90),  by  Miss  M.  Eay- 
ner, and  '  Monks  in  Canterbury 
Crypt'  (No.  107),  by  Miss  Louisa 
Rayner — especially  the  last  for  power, 
colour,  and  finish— require  that  they 
should  be  thoroughly  examined  for 
their  proper  appreciation.  '  Rhodo- 
dendrons and  Azalias'  (No.  146), 
by  Florence  Peel,  must  not  be  passed 
by ;  neither  must  '  Tria  de  Trabajo ' 
(No.  148),  by  Agnes  Bouvier.  The 
latter,  while  exhibiting  undoubted 
care  in  its  manipulations,  is  stiff, 
and  too  near  an  approach  to  miniature 
paintin;-?.  '  Autumn  on  the  Thames, 
near  Slapledurham '  (Xo.  151),  by 
IMiss  S.  S.  Warren,  for  its  quiet 
beauty,  harmony  of  colouring,  and 
sober,  tranquil  character — all  feeling, 
and  no  display — is,  in  our  opinion, 
the  gem  of  the  Exhibition,  and  ex- 
hibits one  of  the  rarest  qualities  in 
paintings  of  all  descriptions — con- 
tentment with  the  use  of  a  few 
colours.  The  great  painters  were 
satisfied  with  a  very  limited  stock  of 
pigments ;  and  in  the  same  way  that 
the  giant  musicians  of  the  past  com- 
posed their  chefa-d'a-uvre  by  the  aid 
of  a  scale  so  limited  that  our  bravura 
singers  would  shake  in  their  throttles 
to  think  of  it,  so,  many  of  the  world- 
famous  painters  of  old  employed  as 


304 


Tlie  Suciety  of  Female  Artists. 


limited  a  cliroraatic  st>alo  in  thir 
especial  art;  but  tlnii  tlioy  know  the 
exact  cfTi  ct  of  i  iicli  pii^nient,  wlicroas 
oxir  niodorn  artists  are  perpetually 
iiiakiiiR  compromises  in  colour,  and 
insteatl  of  a  good  honest  red,  bhie, 
green,  or  yellow,  will  dilute  and  con- 
fuse them  into  so-called  neutral 
tints,  which  may,  or  may  not,  have 
existence  in  Nature.  Precision  in 
the  use  of  colour  is  as  needful  in 
painting  as  precision  in  the  touch  of 
a  note  in  music :  in  either  case 
indecision  is  a  sure  symptom  of 
weakness  and  want  of  skill. 

'The  Brook  Side'  (No.  190),  by 
Miss  Williams  ;  '  Portraitof  a  Young 
Lady'  (No.  195),  by  Mrs.  Bridell ; 
'Gloxiana'  (No.  200),  by  Miss 
Baker;  '  In  Perthshire'  (No.  219) — 
very  charming  —  by  Mrs.  J.  W. 
Brown;  'Great  Expectations'  (No. 
225) — the  faces  admirable— by  Miss 
Emma  Brownlow  ;  '  Jehu  '  (No.  235) 
— which,  if  not  a  copy  from,  has  a 
promising  relish  of,  the  antique— liy 
Miss  Jekyll ;  '  Arab  Boy  Dancing  to 
his  Companions'  (No.  238),  by  Mns. 
F.  Lee  Bridell,  are  all  pictures  worthy 
to  arrest  the  attention  ;  and  then  we 
come  to  'The  Courtship  of  Sir 
Charles  Grandison'  (No.  259),  by 
Miss  Claxton,  which,  in  many  re- 
spects, is  so  excellent,  especially  the 
finish  and  expression  of  the  faces 
of  the  l)cau  and  bcllo,  that  it  is  a 
pity  this  lady  should  copy  in  her 
drapery  and  jxisc  of  the  figures  the 
caricatures  of  Gilray.  Let  her  trust 
to  her  own  talents  and  inspiration, 
and  not  to  the  bizarre  creations  of  a 
bygone  school.  Next,  a  word  of 
conunendation  is  justly  earned  by 
Miss  Warren  (No.  279),  for  her 
picture  of  the  'Thames  at  Isle- 
worth;'  andsoalsoare  the  following 
deserving  of  special  notice,  though, 
of  course,  in  the  limited  space  as- 
signed to  a  critique  in  the  pages  of 
a  monthly  periodical,  it  isimpo.ssiblo 
to  enter  into  the  details  of  the  sub- 
ject:—they  are,  '  Pjrony,  etc. '  (No, 
aSi),  by  Miss  Charlotte  James;  'A 
Quiet  Nof>k  on  the  Thames'  (No. 
282),  by  Miss  S.  H.  Warren ;  'Piper 
and  Feathers*  (No.  299),  by  J.  D. ; 
'  Study  of  a  Negress'  (No.  339),  by 
Mrs.  F.  1x30  Bridell ;  and  '  Counting 
the  Stitches'  (No.  348),  by  Ellen 
Partridge. 


If  artists — men  and  women— will 
only  learn  to  courageously  view 
even  their  .shortcomings  as  stepping- 
stones  to  better  achievements,  much 
may  be  expected  from  the  art  work- 
shops of  the  world ;  and  wo  would 
wager  the  huinblo  and  patient 
against  those  with  more  striking, 
nay,  with  more  brilliant,  attributes 
(supposing  each  is  counneucing  a 
career),  if  to  the  former  is  given  a 
power  to  self-criticise,  and  judgment 
to  tell  them  what  they  should  leave 
unattempted.  This  latter  knowledge 
would  have  prevented  i\Iiss  Emma 
Cooper  (No.  268)  introducing  a. snail 
into  her  picture,  or,  at  all  events, 
such  a  snail !  Delicate  elaboration, 
and  lavish  expenditure  of  time  and 
patience,  are  the  first  requisites  for 
depicting  '  still  life,'  as  so  wonder- 
fully illustrated  by  the  minor  ac- 
cessories in  the  great  Dutch  masters, 
such  as  the  flics,  sjiiders,  snails, 
butterflies,  and  drops  of  water  of 
Van  Os,  Van  Iluysum,  llachael 
Ruysch,  Castcel,  and  even  our  own 
countryman  Luke  Cradock.  Upon 
the  same  ])riuciple  i)ermit  us  to  ask 
Mi.ss  E.  Ih'ownlow  (\o.  212)  why,  if 
she  paints  toy  ducks  (in  the  fore- 
ground, too!),  she  d(X'8  not  also 
favour  us  with  the  little  loadstone 
rod  to  attract  them,  and  dish  or 
basin  to  swim  in?  Tiien  again, 
self-criticism  would  have  prevented 
Mi.'s  L.  Swift  (No.  187)  painting 
satin  with  clay,  not  colour;  and 
would  have  thrown  a  little  air  and 
distance  into  the  backgrounds  of 
Nos.  170, 197,  and  200,  by  Me-sdames 
Seymour,  Bridell,  and  Baker,  each 
work  possessing  merit,  especially 
the  latter. 

As  a  whole,  it  is  impo.ssible  to  deny 
that  the  collection  is  a  poor  one,  and 
that  the  7iiajority  of  the  works  exhi- 
bited lack  dignity,  power,  and  imagi- 
nation ;  while  not  a  single  production 
can  bcsaifl  to  be  ins])ired  by  genius. 
Possibly  the  only  picture  in  the 
gallery  which  has  any  i)retension  at 
all  to  rank  mider  this  title  is  Miss 
Jekyll's  'Jehu;'  but  it  is  impossible 
to  judge  by  a  single  specimen  of 
this  lady's  talents,  or  to  say  if  she 
illustrates  Goethe's  dictum,  that 
'there  are  many  echoes,  but  few 
voices,'  and  whether  the  picture  wo 
allude  to  is  a  copy,  a  bit  out  of  some 


Mr.  Fairiceather's  Taclding. 


805 


ceiling,  perliaps,  or  the  expression 
of  her  own  tliouglit. 

But  vil  dcs])tr(tn<ln>ii  should  he  the 
Society's  motto,  for  at  least  it  boasts 
of  a  largo  amount  of  iiilividual  in- 
dustry ;  and  laboiu'  in  every  calling, 


Carlylo  has  tanght  us  in  eloquence 
incontrovertible,  is  noble,  and  cn- 
nolilirig  even  in  failure,  for  failures 
are  often  the  ])ionofrs  to  success,  by 
warning  \is  froia  the  paths  we  ought 
not  to  take. 


MR.  FAIRWEATHER'S  YACHTING. 
Bi  THE  Author  of  'Yachting  round  the  Wesp  of  Ei\gla.nd.' 


CHAPTEE    II. 

MY  FIRST  YACHT. 


ALTHOUGH  my  experience  of 
yachting  had  been  up  to  the 
present  time  so  limited,  many  of 
my  original  ideas  on  the  snliject 
were  already  changed.  Among 
other  mistakes,  otie  I  had  laboured 
under  was  with  regard  to  the  cha- 
racter of  sailors.  I  had  always 
looked  upon  the  crew  of  a  vesse!  as 
a  company  ot  generous,  congenial 
spirits,  whose  faults  mainly  con- 
sisted of  too  great  a  contempt  of 
dan^r  and  too  strong  a  tendency 
to  jollification.  I  could  not  have 
imagined  that  the  petty  cares  and 
jealousies  of  shore  could  exist  among 
the  free  waves  and  fresh  breezes  of 
the  sea.  Yet  such  I  found  was  the 
case.  Brown,  the  captain,  was  per- 
petually complaining  to  me  about 
James,  the  crew,  and  he  in  turn 
revenged  himself  by  making  friends 
with  Sirapkins,  the  maid,  and  con- 
fiding his  misgivings  about  the  cap- 
tain in  a  qnaiter  where  he  knew 
tliey  would  be  repeated  with  addi- 
tions. James  had  been  in  the  navy. 
Brown  in  the  merchant  marine, 
and  they  fought  as  though  the  desti- 
nies of  the  rival  services  depended 
upon  their  personal  exertions.  If 
James  asserted  that  the  British  navy 
were  the  finest  body  of  men  in  the 
world,  and  could  do  anything  on 
sea  or  land.  Brown  maintained  that 
they  were  the  refuse  of  the  popula- 
tion that  nothing  could  be  made  of 
on  shore,  and  still  less  at  sea.  If 
James  said  they  had  four  good 
things  in  the  na\y,  bread, chocolate, 
rum,  and  tobacco.  Brown  observed 
VOL.  XI.— NO.  Lxrv. 


that  he  did  not  care  for  any  of  them ; 
give  him  the  good  roast  beef.  They 
also  differed  as  to  the  proi^er  cut  ot 
a  pair  of  trousers,  which,  as  sailors 
often  have  to  make  their  own,  occa- 
sioned a  greater  misunderstanding 
between  them  than  might  have  been 
anticipated.  As  to  the  boy  Harry, 
he  was  always  in  the  wrong ;  both 
were  agreed  on  that,  and  he  enjoyed 
the  reputa'ion  of  a  domestic  cat, 
who  is  looked  upon  as  the  cause  of 
every  catastrophe  and  misadventure. 
Dickens  has  ably  portrayed  the 
miseries  of  quarrelliug  in  a  cart, 
but  they  were  nothing  in  compari- 
son with  contending  over  a  red-hot 
stove  in  a  forecastle  where  there  was 
not  even  room  to  stand  upright. 

Another  point  on  which  I  had 
been  in  error  related  to  fishing.  I 
had  supposed  that  having  a  vessel 
provided  with  nets  and  lines,  I 
should,  in  the  course  of  my  excur- 
sions, take  a  considerable  quantity 
of  fish,  and  had  even  given  some  of 
my  friends  reason  to  hope  for  an 
occasional  present.  But  I  found 
that  fishing  was  a  distinct  occupa- 
tion from  yachting ;  it  necessitated 
remaining  almost  stationary  for 
hours  and  days,  and  in  the  most 
distant  and  inconvenient  localities. 
It  also  destroyed  the  neat  appear- 
ance of  the  deck  and  rails,  and, 
in  a  word,  occasioned  so  much  out- 
lay and  loss  of  time  that  it  would 
have  been  cheajDer  to  buy  flounders 
at  half  a  guinea  each  than  to  catch 
them  in  our  own  net.  We  once  or 
twice  attempted  line  fishing,    but 


806 


Mr.  Fairiceather'a  Yachting, 


ovon  in  this  there  was  p^tncnilly  too 
much  or  too  little  \vi\y  on  tlio  vessel 
to  rrnd'T  it  succrssfnl. 

The  Zei>hyiiiia  wiis  not  a  smart- 
lookinc;  criitt.  She  was  iinileriiinsted, 
which  always  gives  a  clunijiy  ap- 
IX'arancc.  In  laiiientiii}:  aiul  con- 
sulting over  this  iinfoitnnato  cir- 
cnnistanco  with  the  captain,  he 
fiuggeste  I  that  it  might  Ikj  partly 
remedied  hy  substituting  a  taller 
topmast;  for  to  have  altered  the 
maiinuast  would  have  been  to  have 
renewed  all  the  sails  and  rigging. 
So  the  captain  obtained  a  very  long 
'  stick,'  and  liad  a  large  new  sail 
juado  fi)r  it,  but  it  did  not  ])roduee 
the  anticipated  eflfcct;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  attracted  more  attention  to 
the  lower  ma>t  and  mainsail,  and 
made  it  look  still  more  insignificant 
ami  dingy. 

This  improvement  wascarri£d  out 
shortly  bLfore  wu  started  on  our 
next  expedition;  and  my  opinion  as 
to  its  success  was  formed  Irom  the 
extremity  of  Southend  pi;  r  while 
avaiting  the  b  at  which  was  to  con- 
vey ni'i  on  board.  Tlie  large  top- 
sail, however,  had  a  decidedly  bene- 
ficial effect  upon  our  spud,  fir  we 
sdou  passed  the  Noro  lightship, 
ami  were  ])assing  ShepjK-y  in  tiie 
direction  of  Margate.  Tiie  north 
coast  of  this  island  was  loftier  and 
more  picturesque  than  I  had  ima- 
gined, and  even  reminded  mo  of 
sf>me  ]iarts  of  North  Devon.  It  was 
nionliled  into  grassy  terraces  and 
sl()])es,  and  in  Eomc  j)laces  luxuriant 
trees  croA'ncd  the  heights  or  de- 
i-.c*nded  the  ravines  to  the  water's 
ed^-e.  Sheppey  was  once  held  in 
liigher  estimation  than  it  is  at  pre- 
sent when  good  (iueen  Se.xburga 
founded  a  nunnery  upcm  it  in  r)7o — 
some  portions  of  whirli  still  remain — 
and,  indeed,  all  these  coasts  of  Kent 
would  bo  considered  highly  inte- 
resting frou  thur  Saxon  associations 
liad  they  not  Injconie  too  familiar  to 
us,  owing  to  their  vicinity  to  the 
metro  fMji  is. 

Ttie  wind  had  changed  l)efore  wc 
could  reach  Margate,  and  we  wero 
obliged  to  put  about  ami  make  for 
Sheerness  and  Uochesttr.  The  coast 
Hhelvesaway  very  gradually  along 
the  Isle  of  Grain,  and  we  ha<l  con- 
Bfcfiuently — for  the  wind  was  fresh 


—  to  encounter  a  considerable 
amount  of  '  lumpy  '  water.  Wo 
passed  a  very  strange-looking  cutter 
on  our  way,  a  pay  lioat  1 50  y(  ars 
old;  but  as  we  approaclwd  Slieer- 
ncs-!  we  could  have  iujagined  tliat 
we  had  obtained  the  golden  l)ranch 
of  the  Sibyl,  and  were  sailing 
across  the  Styx  into  the  sliadowy 
realms  below.  On  cither  hand  roso 
the  monarchs  of  the  seas  of  bygone 
ages— mighty  warriors  silent  and 
motionless,  lying  grimly  side  l)y 
side,  as  in  funereal  state.  All  were 
peaceful  now  as  tlio  gallant  hearts 
who  onco  bore  tiiem  to  victory. 
Hero  may  tliey  rest  in  honour,  and 
insp're  future  generations  to  emu- 
late the  glories  of  the  past ! 

Wo  anchored  under  the  old  castlo 
of  Rochester ;  and,  althoiigh  the 
Norman  conqueror  had  left  hero 
tho  most  conspicuous  mark  of 
his  dominion,  we  found  interesting 
traces  of  tho  Saxon  in  the  very 
name  of  the  city,  which  is  derived 
from  the  cam])  of  Ilrof.  King 
Ethelbert  also  built,  in  597,  a  Chris- 
tian church  here,  founded  a  monas- 
tery for  secular  priests,  and  esta- 
blished a  bishoi)s  sec.  We  spent 
the  night  at  an  hotel  kept  by  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  navy,  an  ancient  houFe 
commanding  a  fine  view  of  the  castlo 
and  cathedral,  and  as  the  wind  was 
still  unfavourable,  determined  next 
morning  ujion  rowing  up  the  Med- 
way,  for  which  we  liad  a  fine  day 
an<l  a  fair  breeze.  James  and  my- 
self were  the  oarsmen  on  this  occa- 
sion, and  as  tho  boat  was  light  we 
soon  passed  tho  lower  part  of  tho 
river,  which  is  disfigured  with  store- 
hou.ses  and  cement  works,  and  en- 
tered a  smiling  com, try  where  luxu- 
riant trees  and  well-kejit  lawns 
bespoke  tho  presence  of  wealtli  and 
taste.  After  i)assiug  under  the  pic- 
turesque old  bridge  of  Aylesford, 
near  which  Vortijern  and  Ilengist 
are  supposed  to  iiave  fought  their 
first  great  battle,  tho  scenery  of  the 
'smooth  Medway'  became  more 
beautiful.  The  banks  were  en- 
nobled with  magnificent  tre&s,  varied 
hero  and  there  by  some  ivy- 
mantled  remnant  of  the  past,  or 
by  some  ornamental  villa  whose 
bright  parterres  extended  to  the 
water's    edge,    and  crimsoned    the 


Mr,  Fairwenlhr'ti  Ydchii'ng. 


307 


silver  flood.  Wo  dipcmbarked  at 
Allington  Castle,  whicli  stands  in  a 
solitary  po.-iHon  on  the  left  side  of 
the  river.  Making  onr  way  through 
the  tall  loosestrife  which  fringed  the 
water  with  its  purple  flowers,  we 
gained  the  precincts  of  the  ruin.  It 
is  of  considerable  extent,  and  in  fair 
preservation.  Nature  has  cherished, 
what  man  has  abandoned,  has  spread 
her  leafy  arms  around  it,  and  em- 
bi)somed  its  crumbling  walls  in  the 
emblem  of  immortality.  On  the 
south  a  large  tower  rears  its  shat- 
tered crest,  and  is  supposed  to  have 
formed  part  of  the  earlier  building. 
Allington  derived  its  name  from  the 
Saxon  iElinges,  and  was  granted  by 
the  Conqueror  to  William  de  War- 
rene.  It  then  passed  through  a 
family  of  the  same  name  as  the 
place  to  Sir  Stephen  de  Penchester, 
who  obtaiued  license  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  III.  to  fortify  and  embattle 
his  castle  here.  But  it  derives  its 
principal  celebrity  from  the  Wyatts, 
into  whose  possession  it  flir-t  came 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  The 
son  of  Sir  Henry,  the  first  possessor, 
became  a  remarkable  man  from  his 
great  talents  and  personal  attrac- 
tions. He  is  mentioned  by  Surrey 
as  a  model  of  virtue,  wisdom,  beauty, 
strength,  and  courage.  He  seems 
to  have  spent  much  of  his  lime  at 
this  castle,  which,  as  we  may  see  by 
the  remains  of  Tudor  architecture, 
he  greatly  enlarged  and  embellished. 
In  one  of  his  poems  he  thus  refers 
to  his  life  here — 

'  This  maketli  me  at  borne  to  bunt  and  Lawk, 
And  in  foul  weather  at  my  book  to  sit. 
In  frost  and  snow  then  with  my  bow  to  stalk, 
No  man  doth  mark  whereso  I  bide  or  go, 
In  lusty  leas  in  liberty  I  walk, 
And  of  these  news  1  feel  nor  weal  nor  woe.' 

There  were  some  whisperings  that 
he  had  formed  an  attachment  with 
Anne  Boleyn,  but  they  were  pro- 
bably merely  the  suggestions  of 
envy,  as  he  was  a  great  favourite 
with  Henry  VIII.  His  son,  unfor- 
tunately for  himself,  did  not  inherit 
hisfatlier's  peaceful  and  philosophic 
temperament.  Sir  Thomas  was  a 
man  of  enterprise,  and  took  a  warm 
interest  in  the  religious  and  political 
movements  of  the  day.  His  party 
were  highly  incensed  at  the  conduct 
of  Queen  Mary,  and  on  hearing  of 


the  proposed  alliance  with  Philip  of 
Spain,  ho,  while  others  were  mostly 
hesitating  and  concealing  their  dis- 
atfection,  o])enly  raised  the  standard 
of  revolt.  He  was  supported  by  the 
greater  part  of  Kent,  and  at  first 
met  with  so  much  success,  that  he 
advanced  upon  London  and  de- 
manded of  the  Queen  to  give  up  the 
Spanish  marriage  and  put  the 
Tower  into  his  hands.  But  the 
royal  party  in  the  city  were  by  this 
time  in  arms;  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt's 
followers  began  to  desert ;  and  he 
was  finally  defeated  and  made  pri- 
soner near  Temple  Bar.  He  be- 
haved himself  nobly  in  his  misfor- 
tunes ;  and  it  was  owing  to  his  pro- 
testing to  the  last  on  the  scalibld 
the  innocence  of  the  Princess  Eliza- 
beth that  she  was  released  from  im- 
prisonment. He  was  beheaded  at 
the  Tower,  and  his  head,  after  it 
had  been  cut  off,  was,  in  accorelance 
with  the  barbarity  of  the  times,  ex- 
hibited on  a  gallows  on  Hay  Hi!l. 
The  people  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Allington  account  for  the  present 
desolation  of  the  place  by  asserting 
that  all  the  inhabitants  followed  Sir 
Thomas  Wjatt  to  London,  and  never 
afterwards  returned. 

We  reached  town  by  the  evening 
train,  having  left  directions  witli  the 
captain  to  proceed  with  the  yacht  to 
Eamsgate.  Our  excursions  bad  not, 
up  to  the  present  time,  been  very 
considerable  ;  but  we  determined  to 
crown  the  season  by  a  voyage  to  the 
coast  of  France.  A  fine  autumnal 
morning,  about  a  fortnight  after- 
wards, saw  us  whirling  over  the 
rails  through  the  garden  of  Kent, 
and  admiring  the  busy,  picturesque 
scene  presented  on  all  sides  by  the 
hop- gatherers  at  work.  We  reached 
Eamsgate  at  one,  and  hoped  to  have 
been  under  way  immediately  ;  but 
no  such  good  fortune  awaited  us. 
We  found  the  Zephyrina  lying  at 
the  highest  part  of  the  dock,  and  as 
the  tide  was  not  high  she  was  not 
afloat;  and  even  had  she  been  we 
were  informed  that  she  could  not 
have  left  as  the  dock- gates  were  not 
open.  They  said  that  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour  these  difficulties 
would  be  removed.  Vain  hope! 
Scarcely  anything  was  prepared. 
The  vessel,  having  no  papers,  had 

X  2 


308 


Ml'.  Fairjc''al]tn*t<  Yacltlnq, 


ii)  1)0  measured  lioforo  Icftvinp,  to  fix 
tlio  ainoinit  of  tlio  liarl>our  duos, 
niid  the  ollicial  upon  whom  ih.s 
duty  devolved  was  away  upon  Foruo 
otlK  r  l)usiiitss.  After  a  loiij?  delay 
ho  arrived  withliisclia'ns  and  satis- 
tieil  liiiusflf  as  to  her  burden,  cn- 
nliliuf^  us  to  caleulalo  the  aiuouut 
due,  at  tlie  rate  of  .sixi)ciico  a  ton. 
P.nt  all  was  not  vet  over;  the  nimiey 
was  nut  to  be  paid  in  that  ofl'  hand 
ujanner  and  the  uiT.iir  Pettkd.  Wo 
must  wait  upon  thoharbour -master, 
who  was  for  the  moment  tngaj^ed, 
then  call  at  the  custom-house,  then 
return  to  the  harbour- master,  and 
then  mount  ap;ain  up  two  flij;lits  of 
stairs  to  the  custom-house  I  was 
tired  out  and  almost  in  despair 
before  wo  started,  which  was  not 
imtil  four  o'clock.  The  day  was  now 
f-omewhat  far  advanced  and  began 
to  look  a  little  unset'led  to  the  we^t, 
but  as  there  was  a  favourable  N.  VV. 
breeze  we  determined  to  proceed. 
A  slight  squall  came  on  just  as  wo 
emerged  from  tho  harbour,  which  a 
little  discomposed  my  wife  but  it 
soon  passed,  and  by  the  time  wo 
were  half  across  Pegwell  Bay  tho 
weather  was  as  fino  as  coidd  have 
1  een  desired.  This  bay,  which  for 
many  of  us  possesses  so  little  of  in- 
terest, and  is  now  becoming  gradu- 
ally tille  1  up  with  sund,  has  wit- 
nesse<l  some  of  the  most /cmarkalilo 
scenes  in  the  English  history.  Hen- 
gist  onrl  Ilorsa,  with  their  fierce, 
rmle  fi)llo\vers,  wore  l)orno  across 
its  waves  to  Ebbsi'leet,  whieli  ouco 
stood  on  its  shore,  and  at  the  same 
place  landed  St.  Augustine  and  his 
monks,  and  formed  a  pmcession  to  . 
meet  King  Ethelbert,  Ixariiig  before 
them  a  picture  of  a  crucilled. Saviour 
and  singing  Gregorian  chants 

For  some  time  the  whito  clilTs  of 
Tiauisgate  and  tho  North  Foreland, 
ht  up  l)y  tho  feun's  rays,  formed 
lieautiful  objects  io  our  wako,  but 
by  degrees  we  Ixgan  to  lose  them, 
and  tf)  distinguish  Deal  more  clearly 
lying  along  the  lowland  on  tho 
larlher  side  of  the  bay.  Sandown 
(Jastio  —  a  massive  tower  rising 
grandly  from  the  water's  edge,  at  tho 
nearer  extremity  of  the  town — 
was,  from  this  point,  tho  princi- 
)'al  feature  in  tho  view.  This  fino 
uM  pilo  will  be  a  great  loFS  to  Deal, 


for  I  hear  it  is  in  oonrpc  of  demo- 
lition for  tho  purpose  of  constructing 
a  harbour.  The  water  in  which  wo* 
anchored,  and  which  extends  for 
pomo  miles,  was  remarkably  calm, 
and  is  connnoidy  kjiown  as  tho 
'  Downs,' a  teim  derived  from  the 
Saxon 'dunes,' aiid  api)Iied  to  this 
channel  as  i)e!ng  sheltered  by  liilis 
or  shoals  of  sand.  Tlie-e — the  Good- 
wins—extend north  aiid  south  for 
about  ten  miles  parallel  with  tho 
coast,  and  are  sup])Of-ed  onco  to 
have  formed  an  island,  '  Lonu'a,'  be- 
longing to  Earl  Godwin,  aiid  to  havu 
been  over  whelmed   about  the  year 

I  lOO. 

It  was  seven  when  wo  landed  at 
Deal.  Wo  were  ?iiuch  iileased  widi 
tlie  i)icturesque  irreuularity  of  the 
town,  and  the  brij^litness  of  tho  tino 
pebbly  beach,  altl.ough  tho  length 
and  steeptKss  of  the  ridge  reudtied 
it  dillicult  for  some  of  our  party  to 
scramble  to  its  summit.  But  wo 
accomplished  tho  feat,  and  our 
baggage  was  distributed  among  a 
tribo  of  little  boys,  who  followed 
us  in  a  long  train  to  the  hotel  with 
unconcealed  wonderment  and  ad- 
miration. 

The  evening  had  been  broken  by 
clouels  and  had  a  wild  ajjpearance. 
As  wo  hud  sailed  along  wo  had 
marked  the  warning  'dri.ms' 
hoisted  along  tho  coast,  but  the 
seamen  paid  little  attention  to  them. 
Towards  night  the  sky  cleared,  and 
the  view  from  our  windows  over 
tho  placid  sea,  studded  with  tho 
lights  of  innumerable  ships  at 
anchor,  as  far  as  tho  Goodwins'  re- 
volving light,  was  peaceful  and 
beautiful.  The  distant  horizon  was 
occasionally  light<;d  up  by  a  flash  of 
lightning,  l)ut  this  secerned  to  occasion 
no  uneasiness,  and  huhe.s  and  gen- 
tlemen were  parading  up  and  down 
on  tho  esplanade  until  past  ten 
o'clock. 

Next  morning  wo  roso  at  Prveii. 
Tho  weather  was  lovely  ;  and  1  went 
out  ui  the  highest  spirits  to  consult 
tho  captain  about  leaving.  Ho  was 
on  lK)ard,  not  expecting  mosoearly, 
so  that  I  was  obliged  to  liiro  a  boat. 

'Fino  morning,'  I  observed,  ad- 
dressing ono  of  the  seamen  on  tho 
tdioro.  '  How  is  tho  wind  for 
I'ranco  ?' 


Mr.  Fairicrntlirrs  Yacli{>'g. 


809 


'Fair,  sir — west  by  norlli.' 

'  I  want  a  boat  to  bo  ))ut  over  to 
that  vc'SLiol.     llavo  you  ouo?' 

'Yes.  sir.     Whicli  vessel?' 

'  The  cutter  close  to  us.' 

'  All  right,  sir.  This  way  if  you 
please.' 

'How  much  will  it  be?'  I  in- 
(iniicd;  having  paid  half-a-crown 
for  coming  ashore. 

'  A  sovei  eign,  sir.' 

'  A  £orereign  ?'  I  repeatecl,  in 
astonishment. 

*  Yes,  sir.' 

I  turned  away  in  disgust.  He 
observed  my  movement. 

'  Well,  sir,  I'll  do  it  for  ten  shil- 
lings.' 

I'he  man  tried  to  follow  me  about, 
nemamliug,  '  Didn't  I  want  a  boat?' 
but  J  soon  quickf  ned  my  pace,  and 
left  the  impostor  to  his  own  con- 
science. I  hear  that  half-a-sovereiga 
is  notan  unusual  aaiouut  for  Thames 
watermen  to  chtugo  foreigners  for 
lauding  them  on  their  arrival  in 
England. 

We  weighed  anchor  at  ten,  and 
steered  in  the  direction  of  the  South 
Sand  light,  thioa.iing  our  way 
through  the  innuujeral)le  vessels 
which  lay  around.  The  Downs  is  a 
favourite  roailstead,  being  ^protected 
on  nearly  every  point  of  the  com- 
pass, but  the  reason  it  is  generally 
so  crowded  is  that  in  this  part  the 
tide  runs  nine  hours  up  the  Channel 
and  oidy  three  down,  so  that  vessels 
outward  bound  prefer  waiting  here 
for  a  change  should  the  wind  be 
contrary.  All  nations  seemed  to 
be  here  collected  together— Norwe- 
gians, Dutch,  Americans,  and  others, 
and  jet  all  were  ea-^ily  distinguish- 
able from  one  another  by  the  dif- 
ferent build  of  their  ships.  Our 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  con- 
siderable number  of  French  fishing- 
boats  lying  at  anchor.  They  were 
three-masted  luggers,  and  not  cutters 
or  '  smacks '  such  as  are  used  in 
England.  They  are  more  weatherly 
boats  than  ours,  and  sail  closer  to 
the  wind,  but  require  more  hands 
to  manage. them.  Wo  observ'ed  that 
almost  every  one  bore  on  its  stern 
the  name  and  effigy  of  some  tutelary 
saiat.  Southern  seamen  have  always 
recognized  their  depeiidence  upon  a 
higher  power  oven  before  St.  Paul 


set  tail  from  Alrxandria  in  a  f^hip 
whose  sign  was  Castor  and  Pollux. 

The  wind  freshuned  as  we  ad- 
vanced, and  passing  Walmir,  half 
concealed  by  its  luxuriant  foliage, 
we  opened  Dover  Castle,  and  the 
long  line  of  the  white  clilfs  whence 
Albion  derives  its  name.  Wo  were 
now  making  good  way,  but  as  the 
breeze  blew  more  and  more  free,  the 
sea  began  to  rise  into  white  crests, 
and  to  treat  us  and  our  little  bark 
in  a  most  undignified  and  disagree- 
able manner.  It  appeared  as  though 
old  Neptune  were  ridiculing  our 
pretensions,  and  had  resolved  to 
sliow  his  power  and  make  us  repent 
of  our  temerity. 

As  we  were  thus  progressing, 
'  carried  up  to  the  heaven,  and  down 
again  to  the  deep,'  we  heartily  con- 
gratulated ourselves  when  we  found 
that  we  were  approaching  the  en- 
trance of  Calais  harbour;  for  al- 
though the  sea  was  higher  than 
ever,  we  began  to  look  forward  to  a 
termination  of  our  airy  career.  Our 
dismay  was  proper tionably  great 
when,  within  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  shore,  and  in  the  very 
worst  of  the  '  lop,'  the  captain  un- 
ceremoniously brought  the  vessel 
'  up,'  and  informed  us  that,  as  he 
was  unacquainted  with  the  port,  it 
would  be  desiral)le  to  wait  there  for 
a  pilot.  Nothing  resembling  a  pilot- 
boat  was  to  be  seen,  and  we  were 
beginning  to  give  ourselves  up  to 
despair,  when,  most  opportunely,  a 
three-masted  French  lugger  came 
in  sight,  and  Brown,  who  was  a 
man  of  resources,  determined  upon 
following  in  her  wake,  adopting  the 
bright  idea  of  the  Irish  navigator, 
who  sailed  in  this  way  to  '  Uiugsil,' 
instead  of  to  '  Fingal.'  In  our  case 
ihe  plan  succeeded  admirably ;  we 
rounded  the  pier  safely,  and  sailed 
into  smooth  water.  Just  as  we  were 
clear  of  our  difliculties,  an  un- 
wieldy old  boat,  with  two  men  in  it, 
pulled  alongside,  and  before  we 
could  ask  any  questions,  one  of 
them  sprang  like  a  cat  over  our 
bulwarks  upon  the  deck,  and  com- 
menced a  wild  unintelligible  ha- 
rangue, accompanied  with  violent 
gesticulations.  I  at  first  supposed 
that  he  was  come  with  some  autho- 
rity, or  was  warning  us  against  some 


810 


Mr.  Fulncrathcr's  Tacldlng. 


unRCon  (lanpor;  but  his  ninnnci- 
Rccnied  quito  opptvoil  to  siicli  an 
i(l(a,  and,  iniliod,  lio  did  not  n]iiHiir 
to  Imvc  any  dtthiito  ol'jix-t  in  view. 
'\Vhat"''".s  he  want?'  I  txclaiuK'ti, 
thoronphly  mystilicd  and  somewliat 
alarmed. 

'  AVell,  sir,'  rcjihcd  Brown,  whoso 
natural  .«hrewducss  oonipenFated  for 
his  want  of  hook  knowledpe.  '  Well, 
sir,  1  think  he  wants— to  be  em- 
ployed ;  and  perhaps  we  had  better 
take  him,  as,  although  he  cannot  do 
US  much  pood,  he  may  otherwise  do 
us  some  harm.' 

'  Much  good  '  ho  certainly  did  not 
do,  for  wo  did  not  understand  any- 
thing he  said.  Brown  had  lieen  in 
so  many  countiies,  and  had  learned 
so  many  languages,  that  he  could 
not  remember  one  of  them,  and  the 
only  word  which  ho  and  the  pilot 
seemed  to  have  in  common  was 
'  provo,'  which  was  occa-<ionally  ex- 
changed with  mysterious  signs 
and  looks,  as  if  it  had  .^omo  deep 
signification.  On  one  point,  how- 
ever, the  intruder  made  himself 
thoroughly  understood,  and  that 
was,  that  tive  francs  were  not  sulll- 
cient  for  his  services,  but  that  he 
must  have  six. 

Scarcely  had  we  settled  ourselves 
in  the  saloon,  and  were  exploring 
the  reccsFcs  of  our  Yorkshire  i)ie, 
when  a  new  commotion  was  heard 
on  deck,  and  the  ca])tain  came 
down  to  inform  us  that  the  cus- 
tom-house ofiicers  had  arrived.  Six 
stalwart  seamen,  in  the  govern- 
ment uniform,  presented  a  some- 
what formidable  appearance;  Imt 
their  mamier  was  not  so  alarm- 
ing as  tlieir  aspect,  for  they  merely 
a-sked  if  the  yacht  belonged  to  any 
'socictc,'  and  whether  I  had  any 
pipers.  Having  been  answered  in 
the  negative,  they  made  some  irre- 
levant observations,  but  did  not  pre- 
pare to  make  any  examination,  nor 
to  return  to  their  boat.  Such  was 
the  state  of  matters,  when  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  our  mutual  em- 
barrassment might  1h!  removed  by 
a  timely  ]il)ation.  ]\Iy  conjecture 
proved  correct,  for  on  proposing 
that  they  should  come  lielow  and  try 
the  (prdity  of  our  sherry,  they  took 
ofl'  tlnir  hats,  and  accepted  the  in- 
vitutiou  with  great  alacrity.     What- 


ever uiiy  bo  .said  to  tlic  contrary, 
tiio  French  are  naturally  a  good- 
natured  people.  They  seemed  to 
approve  of  the  wino,  for  they  fdlod 
up  again  without  much  pressing, 
and  rejieated,  with  genial  smiles  as 
they  drained  their  glasses,  '  Anglais, 
vary  goot.'  \Vlien  the  bottle  was 
finished,  they  withdrew  with  ]iolito 
bows,  and  re-embarked  in  their  boat, 
having  with  us  a  very  favourable 
impres.sion  of  French  custom-house 
officers. 

As  we  intended  to  stay  several 
days  in  Calais,  we  deiormined  upon 
removing  to  a  hotel,  for,  not  to  men- 
tion minor  inconveniences  on  board, 
there  were  several  leaks  in  the  tleck ; 
one,  especially,  just  over  my  berth 
of  so  insidious  a  nature  that  no 
ingenuity  could  detect  its  origin. 
I  liad  some  faint  recollection,  even 
at  such  a  di.>-tance  of  time,  of 
Quillac's  hotel,  as  of  a  large  gloomy 
building  in  whicli  the  one  or  two 
visitors  might  be  di.-;covered  in  vain 
endeavouring  to  find  their  rooms, 
but  now  I  heard  that  this  house 
existed  no  longer,  or  rather,  that 
Al.  Dessin  had  taken  it,  his  own 
having  been  converted  into  a 
museum.  (Juilliic's  establishment 
had  i)robably  died  of  atrojjhy,  and 
DessHi's  hotel  had  been  very  appro- 
priately consecrated  to  the  Pluses, 
inasmuch  as  Scott  had  nuditated 
within  its  walls,  and  Sterne  had  met 
with  deliglitful  niiffortunes  in  its 
i-'inisi.  Some  porters  were  soon 
found  to  as.sist  our  men  in  carrying 
up  our  l)ai;gage,  and  wo  marched  in 
an  iri-cgular  procession  to  our  desti- 
nation. 

With  what  an  air  of  romance  and 
mystery  did  the  mode  of  our  arrival 
invest  the  good  city  of  Cal.iis.  One 
would  have  supposed  that  it  had 
been  one  of  the  least  known  pkicea 
in  the  habitable  globe;  am),  indeed, 
the  tall  hou.scs,  the  long  windows, 
and  the  thin  i)eople  had  a  certain 
charm  of  novelty  for  me,  for  I  liad  not 
l)cen  in  France  since  I  was  a  boy  in 
jackets.  As  a  zealous  student  and 
di.sciple  of  the  'Times,'  and  having 
read  therein  that  there  was  as  niucli 
worth  seeing  in  the  Jhiti.^h  bsles  as 
in  any  other  jiartof  the  world,  I  had 
ever  ])ioUKly  turned  my  autumnal 
footsteps  in  the  direction  of  our  own 


3Ir,  Fairmealhei-'s  Yachting, 


311 


salulirious  watering  places.  But 
what  surprised  mo  most— and  I 
should  think  a  similar  impression 
must  bo  niado  upon  all  visiting  a 
foreign  land  for  the  first  time— was, 
that  every  person  we  met  with,  in- 
stead of  speaking  plain  English  like 
other  people,  insisted  on  talking 
some  unintelligible  jargon.  The 
Greeks,  who  considered  the  Egyp- 
tian priestesses  to  be  a  kind  of 
pigeons,  would  certainly  have  de- 
scribed this  as  a  community  of  daws 
and  magpies. 

Next  day  we  proceeded  to  take  a 
general  view  of  the  town.  The 
shops  were,  witli  very  few  excep- 
tions, divided  into  two  clas.-es — one 
devoted  to  the  sale  of  '  li(iuides,' 
the  other  to  that  of  confectionery. 
Arethvisa  was  quite  wild  with  de- 
h'ght  at  the  brilliancy  of  the  latter — 
a  child  who  had  considered  all  sub- 
lunary happiness  to  culminate  in  the 
enjoyment  of  barley  sugar  or  rasp- 
berry drops — felt  almost  bewildered 
among  such  transparent  colours, 
such  magical  devices ;  and  she 
doubted  whether  even  Cinderella,  in 
her  glass  slii^pers,  had  seen  anything 
half  so  enchanting.  We  accordingly 
entered  one  of  these  establishments 
to  purchase  some  of  the  temjoting 
sweetmeats.  Down  the  centre  of  it 
was  a  long  table  laid  out  with  a  row 
of  jars  of  preserves,  half  eaten,  and 
in  one  of  them  stood  a  large  wooden 
spoon,  with  which  customers  were 
wont  to  go  through  the  confections 
in  order,  before  making  their  choice. 
The  shopman  requested  me  to  pro- 
ceeJ.  I  looked  with  some  mis- 
givings at  the  i^rofrrred  spoon,  but 
Arethusa  seemed  to  have  no  such 
scruples,  and  went  through  the 
ordeal  very  creditably,  though  not, 
T  regret  to  say,  without  ulterior  con- 
sequences. Siie  finally  gave  the 
preference  to  the  'omnibus'  pre- 
serves, so  named  because  formed  of 
a  mixture  of  all  kinds  of  fruits.  We 
purchased  a  few  pounds  of  this,  and 
some  samphire,  which,  for  pickling, 
ought  to  be  in  more  deraamd  than  it 
is  at  present,  although  we  should 
scarcely  be  warranted  in  risking  our 
necks  to  obtain  it,  as  people  seem  to 
have  done  in  Shakspeare's  time.  A 
few  doors  farther  on  our  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  curious   little 


tree  growing  in  a  pot,  at  the  door  of 
an  imago — or,  to  use  plain  English, 
au  idol-monger's  shop.  The  tree 
looked  like  a  deformity,  for  it  had 
a  very  large  round  head  standing 
upon  a  very  slender  stem.  Observ- 
ing our  attention,  a  sharp  little 
woman  came  out  and  informed  us 
that  what  wo  were  examining  was  a 
mignionette  tree,  and  requested  us, 
at  the  same  time,  to  step  in  and  in- 
spect her  stock.  As  we  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  comply,  she  assured 
us  we  need  feel  no  hesitation,  as  she 
received  large  orders  from  Pro- 
testants in  England,  and  had  a  very 
choice  selection  of  saints. 

But  the  principal  object  we  had 
in  view  was  to  visit  the  church, 
whose  massive  tower,  surmounted 
by  a  short  steeple,  is  the  first  mark 
by  which  Calais  is  recognized  from 
the  sea.  There  was  something  in 
the  quaint  form  of  this  grand  old 
pile— something  in  the  reflection 
that  it  was  built  by  the  English 
— that  transported  us,  5s  we  paced 
its  spacious  area,  to  ages  long  past; 
to  a  state  of  things  far  different  from 
the  present.  But  the  more  we  en- 
deavour to  fill  up  the  picture,  to 
grasp  the  pleasing  vision,  the  more 
unsubstantial  did  it  appear;  for 
it  is  the  halo  of  mystery  with 
which  the  past  is  surrounded  that 
'lends  enchantment  to  the  view.' 
While  we  were  thus  vainly  endea- 
vouring to  conjure  up  the  scenes 
and  evoke  the  heroes  of  bygone 
ages,  we  found  ourselves  opposite  a 
large  painting  representing  a  war- 
rior rising  from  the  sea  on  his 
charger.  As  the  costume  did  not 
bespeak  a  sea  divinity,  nor  had  I 
ever  seen  one  so  like  a  Frenchman, 
I  felt  considerably  puzzled,  and  ap- 
plied for  information  to  an  old  pen- 
sioner who  had  been  pursuing  us  all 
over  the  church,  dispelling  our  il- 
lusions by  his  obtrusive  loquacity. 
*  That,  sir,'  he  replied,  '  is  the  Duke 
de  Guise,  who  wrested  Calais  from 
the  English ;  and  he  is  represented 
as  rismg  from  the  water  because 
Calais  was  then  surroimded  by  the 
sea,'  The  fact  was  that  the  to 'vn  was 
formerly  surrounded  by  marshes, 
which  rendered  its  defence  easy,  and 
was  one  reason  why  the  English  were 
able  to  hold  it  so  long.     There  was 


812 


Mr.  r,'iW' filler's  Tii-lilinj. 


ouly  one  npproarh  to  it  on  tlio  Ifind 
si<le,  an<l  tlmt.  Intwom  tliecastli'sof 
St.  Afriitlift  luul  Nownian  Briilj^o,  was 
profoctoil  l>y  a  fosso  und   strongly 
fortitktl.     It  was  ovor-cmliiliiico  in 
the  Df\tiiial   Ktrcuglh  of  llio  place 
that    led   to    its   recovery    by   tlio 
French.      After  the  battle  of   St. 
Qnontin,  Coli},'ny  pnp^'cstcil  to  the 
J)uko  de  Gnise  that  Calais  misht  be 
successfully  surprised  in  the  winter, 
at  which  sca.«()n  the  Kiit^lish  left  there 
ft  very  small    garrison.      The  llect 
was  accordingly  ordered  round,  a 
furious   attack   made   by   sax   tuid 
laud,  and  after  eight  days  the  fosse 
was  drained  and  the  town  carried 
by  assault. 
*  The  puifisant  Balafre  is  very  natu- 
rally a  great  favourite  in  Calais ;  a 
bust  of  him  has  been  placed  l)esidc 
that  of   rviehelieu   in   the   Grande 
Place,  and  a  Guildhall  built  for  the 
mayor  and  aldermen  of  Edward  III. 
-  part    of  which,  jn-incipally    the 
gateway,    still    remains— is    desig- 
nated 'llotei    dc   Guise,   from    his 
having  after  vvards  occupied  it.  How 
much  valour  and  ability  was  lost  in 
this  prince  through  insatiable  and 
un.scrujmlous ambition!   Had  he,  in 
thoso    momentous    transactions   in 
which  he  exerci'id  so  great  an  influ- 
ence, curbed  his  haughty  and   in- 
tolerant    spirit,    ho     would     have 
escaped  the  dagger  of  the  a.ssassin 
and  have  left  a  iinme  glorious  not 
only    in    France    but    throughout 
Christendom. 

Before  returning  to  our  hotel  I 
paid  a  vi-it  to  our '  craft,'  wliich  was 
moored  in  the  harbour  near  the 
railway-station.  She  ])resented  a 
much  neater  appearance  than  when 
wo  had  left  her;  the  captain  had 
done  his  best  to  make  her  look  well ; 
he  had  stowed  away  the  sails,  which 
were  not  very  ornamental,  and  hiing 
out  the  carpet,  which  was,  and 
which  had  attracted  an  assead)ly 
of  little  boys  who  stood  in  ft  line 
ftlong  the  quay  in  mute  admira- 
tion. He  had  al'-o  hoisted  the  flag, 
though  at  ft  gn  at  saciiiico  of  per- 
sonal feeling,  for  it  was  nothing 
more  than  a  plain  red  wliilT.  If  he 
had  a  weakness  it  was  for  a  goofi  set 
of  colours,  and  he  was  coiustantly 
enuniurating  the  advantages  of  be- 
longing to  a  yacht  club,  evidently 


thinking  my  not  doing  so  to  bo  n 
])iece  of  culpable  negligence.  But 
the  fact  was  that  I  was  not  sufli- 
ciently  familiar  with  yachting  alt'iirs 
to  decide  whetlier  it  woulil  bo  de- 
sirable for  me  to  l>eloug  to  a  club; 
nor  was  I  acquainted  with  any 
member  of  one  to  whom  I  would 
willingly  apply.  So  Brown  was 
obbged  ti)  continue  in  his  astonish- 
ment, and  to  hoist  the  obnoxious 
and  uni)rivi!e:red  wiiiff. 

Onr  lirst   excursion  from   Calais 
was  to  St.  ( )mer — a  distance  of  about 
live   leagues.     We    arrived   in   the 
afteinoon;    the  day   was  Foft  and 
autumnal,  and  a  sweet  sarin' s>  or 
listlesi-ness  seemed  to  pervade  the 
place— a  stillness  suitable  to  n)ng- 
ui licence  in  decay.     On  cither  side 
of    the    street   rose    those  palatial 
buildiii'.'s  which,  from  their  size,  aro 
in  France  designated  'hotels,'  but 
in  most  of  them  there  was  as  little 
sign  of  life  as  among  the  rnius  of 
Tl'.ebes.     Of   many,  the   gates  ap- 
p  ared  to  have  been  closed  for  ages ; 
of    some,  the    side-door  was   half 
open,  revealing  stately  (piadranglcs, 
deserted  and   decaying;    one   vyas 
still  occupied  ks  a  convent ;  while, 
through  the  portals  of  a  very  few, 
glimpsics  were   obtaineel  of  bright 
liowers  arranged  in  thoso  prim  and 
gaudy  masses  which  the  French  eo 
much  almire.     The  only  movement 
vi-iblc  in  the  town  was  along  tho 
canal  which  winds  through  it,  and 
down  which  biirgcs  were  constantly 
l^assinL',  so  qiiaint  and  Dutch-look- 
ing in  build,  and  .so  bedizened  wi'h 
colours,  that  wo  could  almost  fancy 
ourselves  in  Holland.   The  catlieilral 
is  an  ancient  and  magnificent  build- 
ing, containing  altars  rich  with  gold 
paintings  and  sculpture\     In  going 
through  it  we  found  on  the  left  sielo 
a    huge    stone    sarcophagus,    over 
which  was  a  notice;  ]»nrporting  that 
it  containeil  the  bones  of  some  gieat 
saint     with    an     uniirononnceablo 
Dutch  name,  by  means  of  thethank- 
ofTerings  for  whose  tniracuious  cures 
this  cathertral  had  been  originally 
founded.     Vvom  this  we  visited  tho 
ruins  which  had  on 'o  formed  part 
of  ft  still  grander  edifice— that  of 
the    ablK'y    church   of  St.    Berlin, 
destroyed  in  the  llevolution  under 
tho  Directory.     Over  tho  gateway 


Mr.  Fairwctilier  8  Yachting. 


\Vd 


the  inscription  was  still  legible, 
'Sanctum  Divi  iicrtini  teniphiiu 
caste  memento  jngvodi ;'  bntof  tin's 
once  splendid  bnildingnpthing  now 
remains  but  the  gigantic  tower  an  1 
a  lew  pinnacles.  It  was  tlie  favourite 
elmrcli  of  tlie  learned  Alban  lintler, 
who  wrote  '  The  Lives  of  the  Saints,' 
and  lived  in  this  town  as  President 
of  the  Engli.-h  College.  This  esta- 
tilishment  exists  no  longer,  but  was 
remarkable  as  the  place  in  which 
Daniel  O'Connell  received  his  educa- 
tion for  the  priesthood. 

The  pure  air  and  the  exercise 
which  these  investigations  neces- 
sitated, began  in  time  to  i^roduce  a 
beneticial  effect  on  our  a])pctites, 
and  we  directed  our  steps  towards 
the  principal  street.  This — the  Rue 
de  Commandant,  for  St.  Omer  is 
fort  ifk  d  —we  travi  rsed  with  no  satis- 
factory result ;  but  found  accommo- 
dation at  an  unpretentious  inn  in  a 
less  fashiura'ole  quarter.  It  Avas 
named  the  '  Hotel  de  Commerce ;' 
but  how  eliflerent  was  it  from  an 
English  commercial  hotel.  True, 
everything  was  plain  and  sim.ple  to 
a  degree ;  the  room  into  which  we 
were  shown  had  a  round  straw  mat 
in  the  place  of  a  cavi^et,  and  its  only 
ornaments,  if  such  they  could  be 
called,  consisted  of  rows  of  pears, 
ranged  very  regularly  on  shelves 
along  the  wall.  But  its  neatness 
and  cleanliness  could  not  be  sur- 
p^s^ed.  Here  v.as  no  elubious  table- 
cloth, no  waiter  Aviping  your  plate 
with  liis  pocket-handkerchief;  the 
linen  was  spotless  as  the  driven 
snow,  and  the  glass  sparkled  like 
Alpine  crystal.  The  dinner,  which 
was  served  by  the  landlady  and  her 
assistfint,  in  their  prim  white  caps, 
consisted  of  seven  excellent  courses, 
the  whf)lo  charges  for  four  persons, 
including  a  bottle  of  St.  Julien,  was 
only  ten  francs. 

Our  nest  expedition  was  to  Wat- 
teu,  where  wc  visited  the  ancient 
convent,  and  again  met  with  Datch- 
lookiug  barges  o'  all  kinds  and 
sizes ;  from  the  Express  boat  for 
Dunkcrque,  gliding  along  merrily 
behind  a  pair  of  horses  and  a  huge 
postillion,  to  the    torpid  craft   of 


burden,  whose  snail-liko  progrej-s 
depended  on  the  exeititms  of  one 
man,  anel  was  towed  by  a  lino 
aftat'hed  to  the  top  of  a  flexible  rod 
set  upright  like  a  mast.  Wo  found 
that  in  this,  as  well  as  in  our  suc- 
ceeding excursions,  our  best  plan 
was  to  make  an  early  breakfast  be- 
fore starting,  and  to  return  at  night 
to  Calais,  as  we  could  not  usually 
obtain  gOijd  accommodation  else- 
Avhere.  There,  in  our  hotel,  every- 
thing was  not,  only  comfortable,  but 
luxurious.  The  dinners  were  first- 
ra'e,  and  we  were  e-pecially  pleased 
with  the  waitress  who  attended  us, 
Avho  was  one  of  the  neatest  anil 
most  willing  of  serving- Avomen.  She 
Avas  dressed  in  the  costume  of  t'le 
peasantry,  and  Avas  a  remarkably 
line  specimen  of  a  Frenchwoman 
—  tall  and  well-grown,  and  of  such 
proportions  as  are  best  suited  to 
activity  and  strength.  She  seemed 
to  be  made  of  sterner  stuff  than 
English  women  generally  are,  and 
AA'anted  that  softness  which  we  so 
much  admire ;  but  her  features  were 
regular;  her  complexion,  though 
toned,  was  clear  anel  unsullied,  and 
her  countenance  AA-as  of  that  heroic 
cast  of  which  French  sculj^tors  are 
so  fond,  tiud  which  imparts  subli- 
mity to  statues  of  Freedom.  We 
heard  that  she  was  not  in  good 
health,  and,  although  she  never 
complained,  \Ye  vcexe  concerned  to 
see  her  working  so  incessantly,  and 
carrying  si;ch  heavy  burdens.  But 
what  struck  me  as  most  remarkable 
about  her  was,  that  she  refused  to 
accept  money.  Arethusa's  light 
heart  and  foot  occasioned  many  little 
domestic  misfortunes,  and,  I  jegret 
to  say,  much  unuf^cessary  work; 
but  on  my  wife's  offering  Louise — 
for  such  was  her  name — some  com- 
pensation, she  only  laughed,  said 
she  would  receive  nothing,  and  that 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for 
'  mademoiselle.'  Such  conetuct  was 
to  me  most  unaccounta')le.  I  had 
Lever  before  met  with  any  person 
who  refused  an  offer  of  money, 
except  one  poor  woman  Avho  had 
shortly  afterwards  to  be  placed  in 
a  lunatic  asyluu-. 


{To  he  continued.) 


314 


LKS  JEaX  ATIILKTIQUES. 


'  ivn^^'  y^"  pet  to  St.  :Maio, 

y  y  don't  go  thcro,  !mt  to  St. 
Servan.' 

These  ilircctions  may  a|i|)c.ir  pa- 
radoxiciil  to  the  uninitiated,  l>nt  I 
took  the  advice  that  wa.s  (.'ivm  lue, 
and  found  it  sound  and  },'ood.  Vou 
fice,  St.  Malo  i)roi)er,  the  (piaint  old 
city  witliin  the  walls,  tlie  old- 
fashioned  i)la('e  with  the  five-story 
galiled  houses,  and  narrow  streets, 
rivals  that  other  fair  city  of  Cologne 
in  one  sad  i),irti('ular.  There  are 
strange,  unnatural,  choleraic  smells 
u'lout  the  place;  and  tlioup-h  it  is 
allowable  to  put  your  handk-erchief 
up  to  your  no.se  when  you  thread  its 
lal\vrinthinc  mazes  by  day,  it  is 
quite  impassible  to  keep  your  bed- 
room window  open  by  ni^^lit. 

St.  !Mal()  is  built  on  a  peninsula, 
and  is  separated  from  tlie  Angli- 
cized suburb  of  St.  Servan  by  the 
narrowest  possible  strip  of  laud. 
The  St.  Servan  houses  are  waslied 
by  the  sea;  the  St.  Servan  streets, 
though  odoriferous  at  times,  have 
not  t!io  everlasting  odour  which 
ciiugs  to  the  St.  Malo  alleys  SL  .Ser- 
van l)()asts  of  society  and  leads  the 
fashion;  and,  what  was  by  far  the 
most  consequence  to  me,  St.  Servan 
numbers  amon^'st  its  hotels  one  of 
the  cheeriest  little  i)laces  I  have 
ever  had  the  luck  to  fall  across,  kept 
l>y  as  charujing  and  good-natured 
an  English  lady  as  I  have  ever  met. 

'  .Mind   you   go  to   ^Irs.  C 's 

hotel ;  and,  rememl)er,  don't  be  per- 
sua<ied  into  putting  up  at  St.  Malo/ 
said  my  Mentor;  or  rather,  to  bo 
accurate,  the  wife  of  my  Mentor,  as 
wo  three — what  a  jilensant  party  it 
was!— sat  eating  l)read  and  honey 
among  the  carnations,  that  grew  in 
profusion  in  the  little  old  French- 
woman's garden  overlooking  Kozel 
I'ay  in  the  Isiand  of  Jersey. 

Mentor  •  f  si  j'l  minr  were  passing 
through  Jersey  on  their  way  homo 
Iroin  France.  I  was  to  start  nixt 
morning,  in  a  fisliing-l'o.it,  to  l»o 
landed  somewhere  or  other  on  the 
coast  of  Franco,  but  where  I  did  not 
jirecisely  know  or  care.  My  friends 
made  me  die  with  laughing  at  their 
description  of  the  vui'ioufi  tolks    I 


should  find  at  Mrs.  C 's.     They 

primed  me  with  cliafT  to  fire  at  the 
hypochondriacal  Indian  civil  ser- 
vant,iis  hale  and  hearty,  and  as  jolly 
a  fellow  as  could  be  foimd,  who  had 
a  ]■' iir!,iii,t  for  tartlets  and  other 
tootli.some  dainties,  and  a  fixed  idea 
that  his  liver  was  so  di.^eased  that  he 
was  a  doomed  man.  They  told  me  of 
]\Iadame  and  ^hidame's  '  chat,'  who 
was  invarial)ly  getting  lost  or  eaten 
or  boiled;  of  the  fussy  'notaire' 
who  dined  at  the  table  d'hote  every 
(lay,  and  touted  to  let  or  sell  the 
Villa  Cuba,  on  wlio.sc  merits  lie  ex- 
patiated so  loudly  and  jiersistently, 
that  ho  made  ISlr.  lirian  Born,  an 
honest,  i)laiu-s))oken  Irishman,  re- 
lieve himself  of  such  a  volley  of  in- 
vectives, ill  English  asides,  that  wo 
were  all  in  an  agony  of  fear  lest  the 
'  iiotaire'  had  not,  by  chance,  on  his 
travels  picked  up  a  word  or  so  of 
our  mother  tongue.  They  told  rae 
of  the  Colonel  and  the  Colonel's 
child,  with  a  face  like  one  of  Ra- 
pliael's  angels ;  in  fact,  they  told 
me  so  much,  and  so  far  excitetl  my 
cnrio>ity,  that  when  at  last  I  got  to 
St.  Malo  1  did  go  to  St.  Servan. 

'I  don't  know  where  I'm  to  put 

you,    sir,'  were   Mrs.  C "s    first 

words.     '  We  are  perfectly  full.' 

I  protested  I  had  come  all  the 
way  to  St.  Servan  on  purpose  to  jiut 

up  at  J  Irs.  C 's.     '  Had  she  the 

heart  to  turn  me  out?' 

'  Would  you  mind  an  attic?' 

'Not  in  the  least.' 

And  so  I  went  to  the  attic,  the 
airiest  and  best  bedroom  by  far  in 
the  house  as  it  turned  out.  The 
window  looked  out  upon  the  sea, 
and  when  I  opened  it  at  nigld  the 
pleasant  booming  of  the  water  on 
the  rocks  below  lulled  me  comfort- 
ably to  sleep. 

I  liad  not  been  in  St,  Servan  half 
an  lK)ur  before  I  met,  most  unex- 
pectedly, one  of  iny  most  intimate 
friends.  There  wei(;  a  few  minutes 
to  spare  l>efore  table  d'hote,  so  I  took 
myself  r»fr  to  inspect  tlie  ferry,  which 
I  had  b(;en  toM  was  the  nearest  and 
by  far  \\ui  most  ci.nveni(;ut  way  to 
St.  Malo.  A  boat  full  of  passengers 
had  jubt  arrived  at  the  sti^w.    One 


Les  Jeux  Athlctiques. 


815 


by  one  I  watched  tlio  pass-oiigers 
disembavlc.  A  haiuLsoinc  St.  Bernard 
doe;  first  attraclod  my  attention.  He 
had  sometliing  in  his  nioutli.  Where 
had  I  seen  tliat  dog  before  ?  Not  in 
the  Regent's  Park !  Up  the  stei)s 
came  the  owiier,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  that.  Boating  t^hoes,  thick-set 
frame,  general  get-up  most  deci- 
dedly Euglish!  Pot-hat!  Kingston 
ribbon !  Could  it  be  possible  !  Of 
course ! 

It  was  the  Captain ! 

There  was  a  wild  yell  of  recogni- 
tion on  both  sides  which  njade  poor 
Alphonse  stare.  He  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  such  a  burst  of  emhu- 
siasui  from  the  lips  of  any  English- 
man. 

The  Captain  (I  will  call  him  so 
for  the  future,  seeing  that  he 
led  our  little  English  company 
at  St.  Malo)  had  been  at  St.  Ser- 
van  for  some  weeks,  and  he  me- 
ditated staying  some  weeks  longer. 
He  was  there  with  his  '  people,'  he 
said,  and  was  readinr/  very  hard.  I 
knew  very  well  what  that  meant.  I 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  C;i]3- 
tain  for  some  years  now,  and  he  is 
always  reading  very  hard.  To  the 
best  of  my  knowledge,  however,  I 
have  never  seen  him  witli  a  book  in 
his  hand.  I  have  called  for  him  at 
his  chambers  scores  of  times,  and 
never  found  him  at  home.  Five 
minutes'  conversation  with  the  Cap- 
tain told  me  his  exact  position  at  St. 
Servan.  Gifted  as  he  was — singu- 
larly gifted,  I  may  say— in  the  art  of 
hitting  a  sixer  to  leg,  rowing  stroke 
in  a  four  oar,  running  a  two-mile 
race,  playing  a  game  at  billiards, 
swimming  round  the  Fort,  dancing 
till  any  hour  in  the  morning,  and 
singing  and  playing  with  sympathy, 
consummate  taste  and  skill,  my 
friend  the  Captain  was  evidently  an 
acquisition  at  St.  Servan.  He  was 
looked  up  to  and  quoted  as  an  autho- 
rity by  the  little  band  of  university 
men,  public  school  boys,  barristers, 
officers,  civil  servants  cum  myitis 
aliis  who  happened  to  be  in  St.  Ser- 
van or  St.  Malo;  and  as  to  the 
women — well,  they  hung  about  the 
piano  and  insisted  on  the  most  per- 
fect silence  when  he  sung  German 
Lieder  in  his  sweet  persuasive  voice, 
and  were  invariably  talking  about 


and  quoting  '  the  young  tutor  smd 
his  dog.'  IIow  they  got  hold  of  that 
notion  about  tlie  tutor  I  can't  con- 
ceive. He  was  no  more  a  tutor  than 
I  was ;  but  they  stuck  to  their 
original  notion,  and  in  a  few  days 
talked  of  me  as  the  '  tirtor's  friend.' 

*  I  say,  old  boy,  look  here,'  said 
the  Captain,  seizing  mc  by  the  arm, 
and  half  dragging  me  across  tlu! 
street.  *  Do  you  see  that  blue  bill  ? 
Eead  it,  and  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  it.' 

I  read  the  heading,  which  was  &%/ 
follows : — 

'Jeux  Atble'Uques  d' Amateurs, 

A  la  Caserno  de  St.  Servan, 

Par  perniis-ion  de.M.  le  Colonel  du  •]$  Regiment 

d'iiifanterie. 

14  A<nit,  1S68.' 

Then  followed  the  list  of  sports  and 
the  names  of  the  committee  and 
stewards.  The  Captain  was  the  hon. 
sec. 

'  Athletic  sports,'  said  I ;  '  that 
will  be  no  end  of  fun.  But  I  had 
no  idea  that  there  were  enough  Eng- 
lish here  to  gt^t  them  up  or  ensure 
their  achieving  anything  like  suc- 
cess.' 

'  My  dear  fellow,'  said  the  Cap- 
tain, 'these  races  are  creating  the 
most  profound  excitement.  The 
French  officers  do  nothing  but  chat- 
ter about  them ;  and  as  to  the  Eng- 
lish girls  here,  they  have  behaved  in 
the  most  plucky  manner,  and  col- 
lected every  farthing  of  the  money 
for  the  prizes.  If  only  to  repay  their 
kindness,  we  must  try  and  make 
these  races  go  off  well.' 

'  There  are  some  good  names  in 
the  list  of  stewards,'  said  I. 

*  Oh,  yes,  there  are  plenty  of  well- 
known  Eton,  Harrow,  and  Marl- 
borough men  staying  here.  But 
what  do  you  think  of  this  ?' 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the 
last  line  of  the  bill — 

'  Le  Juge— Dalhousie  MacGregor, 
Esq.' 

'  It's  our  only  fictitious  name,'  he 
said ;  'and  I  thought  I'd  get  a  good 
one  while  I  was  about  it.' 

The  captain  would  not  hear  of  my 
leaving  France  in  three  days'time,as  I 
had  originally  intended.  So,  bribed 
with  the  pleasant  prospect  of  lots  of 
dances,  pic-nics,  croquet  parties,  fas- 
cinating acquaintances,  and,  above 


3i6 


Lis  Jcux  A'ltlctlqUCa. 


all,  the  famous  '  Jenx  Atlilotiques,'  I 
ulliiu;ittly  pi.'o  way,  and  promised 
to  stay  a  little  louger. 

'  You  must  conio  ta  dinner  wiHi 
lis  to-niglit,  at  nny  rate;,'  said  the 
Captain, '  and  go  to  the  ('a~ia  >  after- 
wards. They  are  gtia;;  to  play 
Offenbach's  "  Li>c;hcn  ct  Frischen  " 
this  evening.  You  remember  the 
Alsatian  duct  in  it,  of  course,  that 
wo  n-cd  to  rave  abo  it  at  poor 
old  Billy 'is  Friday  evenings?  Why 
did  the  old  monster  go  and  livo 
down  at  Beulah  Sjia,  of  all  placets 
in  tho  world,  liur\ing  hnu-elf 
among-t  early  Christuns,  toriuented 
fur  everlasting  -and  serve  him  right 
—with  invitations  to  buttered  toa>t 
and  prayers.  After  t!ie  operetti 
there  will  be  a  swell  lianno.  Y'ou'vc 
got  your  dre'-s  clothes,  I  hope?' 

By  the  lacluL'>t  accident  in  tho 
world  I  had  brought  my  dress 
clothes;     so    I     repaired    to    Jlrs. 

C 's,  not  to  tiblj  d'hote,  as  s-ho 

londly  imagined,  but  to  tell  her  that 
I  had  found  a  friend,  and  wanted  a 
latch-key !  I  did  more  than  this,  for 
1  persiia  led  the  dyspeptic  civil  ser- 
vant to  como  oa  to  the  Casino  in  tho 
evening,  inueli  to  tlic  hoiror  of  his 
wife  and  t!ie  other  ladies,  who dranlc 
tea  to  an  alarming  extent  after  taMo 
d'hote,  and  went  to  bed  regiilaily 
at  half-past  nine  every  evening.  I 
think  they  thought  mo  a  sad  repro- 
bate, but  that  is  no  matter.  We 
were  all  very  good  friends,  and  I 
was  a  capital  excuse  on  more 
than  o'lc  o  -ea-ion  for  the  male  por- 
tion of  the  community.  The  tea- 
tiible,  jou  know,  was  all  very  well  in 
its  way.  I  thought  it  particularly 
delightful  when  one  of  tlie  pretiie-t, 
mo>t  j>i>j,'.a,,tf  little  French  girls  ima- 
ginable took  mo  into  a  corner  and 
made  me  teach  her  English  ;  but  my 
fa.seinating  friend  would  go  back 
with  lier  sister-in-law  to  Paris; 
wlitrcuiion  I  pbinged  into  reckless 
dis.sipation,  and  dragged  ofT  all  the 
re-p'jctablo  married  men  to  the 
Casino,  Cafe  Chantant,  or  Cafe  de  la 
I'aix,  famed  for  its  billiard-tables 
and  f//"ii'.. 

1  dined  with  tho  Captain  and  his 
'  people' ace  )rding  to  arrangement. 
V\'hat  a  tnat  it  wa.s  to  hear  tlio 
cheerful  ring  of  friendly  voices 
again,  and  to  talk  over  adventures 


and  home,  and  to  get  anafTection  itc 
greeting  afcer  so  much  lontdimss 
among  strangers!  After  dinner  wo 
went  to  the  Casino.  The  Casino  at 
St.  Malo  is  not  a  largo  or  imposing 
building,  but  it  is  admirably  fitted 
up,  and  possLSiiiig,  ns  it  does,  an 
excellent  floor,  and  being  well  ar- 
ranged for  dancing,  tho  bdl  nights 
are  always  poi)ular,  and  attended  by 
the  be.>t  ]K'ople  of  both  towns.  I 
was  soon  friends  with  Oxford,  VJim, 
Harrow,  and  ^larlborough,  and  in  a 
very  short  sjin^e  of  time  liad  been 
introducid  toall  tho  English  girls, 
and  danced  a  long,  long  valsu  with 
tho  'Chic'  girl,  as  they  ]nMfanely 
called  her  there.  Tho  'Chic'  girl 
and  I  became  great  friends.  Sho 
was  a  niy.>tery,  this  young  lady. 
There  was  a  sad,  midanclioly  ex- 
pression about  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  always  found  you  out  sonic- 
how,  and  i  tliink  it  is  pkasanter  to 
be  f.iund  out  by  sad,  di\amy  eyes 
like  hers,  tlian  by  (la'^hing,  beady 
ones  which  dash  at  you,  and  very  fre- 
quently let  jou  go  again.  I  became 
ra|)idly — this  isasad  failing  of  mine 
— viry  ir,t(;rcsted  in  my  fair  friend, 
a  feeding  wliich  was  heightened  by 
my  unluckily  tfmcliing,  by  t!ie  purest 
aci'ident  in  the  worM,  on  the  'lost 
chord.'  S'lmebody  or  other  had 
behaved  badly  to  her,  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that,  for  tho  jioor  girl's 
e}03  filled  with  tears.  I  was  in- 
tensely sorry  for  my  mistake,  but  it 
is  jile-asant,  after  all,  to  find  a  girl  in 
this  nineteenth  century  with  just  a 
little  bit  of  feeling,  is  it  not  ?  As  1 
remarked  before,  the  '  Chic '  girl 
and  I  became  great  friends.  She 
said  she  was  y  glad  I  h  u\  i)romised 
t )  f-tay  ov(!r  tho  races,  and  then  wo 
fell  to  talking  ab)ut  the  Captain,  at 
tho  mention  of  wlioso  singing  slio 
g')t  actually  enthusiastic,  and  tln.ro 
was  just  a  Hash  of  tire  in  her  melan- 
choly eyes.  ]f  I  hail  not  been  well 
accustomed  to  fits  like  these  in  other 
Women,  under  similar  circurnstiUKv.s, 
I  do  not  know  how  jealous  I  might 
not  have  been ;  but  in  this  instance 
the  'green-eyed  monster'  was  put 
(uit  of  tho  question  by  lier  asking 
me  to  wear  her  coloijrs  on  the  great 
day. 

'What  might   they   be?'  said  T, 
innocently.    Sho  was  dressed  iu  tho 


Lcs  Jeux  Athlcllqucs. 


317 


fiimplest  white,  with  just  a  suspicion 
of  black  licre  and  there. 

'  Black  and  wliito/  she  whimpered. 

'  Noir  et  blauc,'  were  my  colours 
on  tlio  card. 

The  Captain  had  not  exaggeratcil 
the  excitement  which  these  f<.ot 
races  created.  A  lot  of  us  were 
standing  talking  in  the  ice-rooia 
when  the  Captain  was  called  on  one 
side  by  a  sous-lieutenant  of  the 
regiujeut  stationed  at  St.  Servan. 
The  sous-lieufenant  was  accom- 
panied by  a  friend.  The  officer  was 
in  uniform,  of  course.  The  friend, 
who  was  rather  a  swell  in  his  way, 
was  not.  I  must  describe  his  cos- 
tume, '  Le  codnivc.  da  hal.'  Light 
French  grey  trousers,  high  black 
waistcoat,  tail  coat  elaborately 
watered-silked,  and  a  tie,  oh!  such 
a  tie!  It  was  composed  of  white 
satin,  bow -shaped,  with  long  stream- 
ing ends,  the  edges  of  the  ends  being 
decorated  with  chocolate-coloured 
horseshoes  !  There,  what  do  you 
think  of  that  for  fjrandc  tainci  He 
was  evidently  bent  upon  making  an 
impression,  and  he  certainly  did— 
upon  the  English. 

'  1  am  the  bearer  of  a  message 
from  my  brother  officers,  and  the 
French  athletes  generally  in  St. 
Malo  and  St.  Servan,'  said  the  little 
ofBcer  to  the  Captain. 

The  Captain  bowed. 

'  We  have  determined  to  beat  the 
English  at  their  own  sports,  and  to 
win.' 

The  Captain  bowed  again,  and 
made  some  general  remark  about 
trusting  that  the  best  man  would 
always  win. 

*  We  shall  win!'  said  the  little 
ofBcer,  getting  excited.  '  You  s^hall 
see  it.  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  et  Mes- 
sieurs les  Anglais  sur  le  champ.' 

And  then  he  went  off  with  a  half- 
detiant  gesture  and  a  very  theatrical 
flourish.  The  friend  stayed  and 
made  himself  pavticiilarly  affable, 
assuring  us  that  when  at  school  in 
England  he  had  won  several  prizes 
at  cricket  and  birds'-nesting ! 

We  kept  it  up  very  late  that  night 
at  the  Casino.  The  '  Chic '  girl 
danced  exquisitely,  and  the  excite- 
ment was  pleasant  to  one  who  had 
been  travelling  for  some  weeks  alone. 


Wo  had  a  hard  day's  work  before 
us  on  the  eve  of  our  athkitie  festival. 
A  '  cour.se  aux  haies'  had  been  ad- 
vertised among  the  other  sports,  and 
not  a  hurdle  was  to  bo  got  for  love 
or  money.  They  tether  all  the 
sheep  in  that  benighted  coiuitry. 
At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  an 
impiomptu  committee  meeting  was 
held  in  the  middle  of  the  Grande 
Euc,  St.  Servan.  Just  a  suspicion 
of  gruml)ling  was  heard,  and  bin's 
givt-n  tliat  nothing  would  be  done, 
and  that  somehoi///  ought  to  have 
thought  of  the  hurdles  bLfore.  These 
generalities  are  not  uncommon  on 
such  occasions,  and  the  Captain 
showed  he  was  an  old  stager  by 
putting  a  stop  to  them  in  very 
plain  and  decisive  language. 

After  delivering  himself  of  his 
mild  rebuke,  a  bright  thought  came 
into  the  Captani's  head,  ami  in  less 
than  five  minutes  the  committee 
had  piirchased  two  -shopsful  of 
birch  brooms  and  faggots,  and  tliese 
we  carried  on  our  backs  through 
the  crowded  streets  to  '  la  Caserne.' 
Time  was  an  object  to  us,  but  Alphonse 
thought  us  mad.  It  is  a  nasty  awk- 
ward job  making  ten  flights  of  hur- 
dles out  of  birch  brooms  and  fiiggots, 
but  the  feat  was  got  over  satisfac- 
torily, thanks  to  a  strong  public 
school  division  which  came  over 
from  Jersey  in  expectation  af  a 
cricket-matcli  that  day.  They  were 
disappointed,  of  course,  but  they 
had  their  revenge  by  winning  nearly 
all  the  races.  It  was  irritating, 
when  working  like  slaves  at  these 
hurdles,  to  lind  that  the  French 
soldiers  who  happened  to  be  about 
the  barrack-yard,  simply  stood  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  looking 
on,  smoking  cigarettes,  sneering, 
but  never  so  much  as  offering  a 
helping  hand.  They  should  have 
treated  us  better,  considering  two 
prizes  were  offered  to  be  competed 
for  by  the  soldiers  alone.  The  fact 
was  that  the  soldiers,  and,  I  think 
the  majority  of  the  French  people, 
thought  us  simply  insane,  and  pre- 
dicted a  dead  failure  and  an  absence 
of  all  excitement  on  the  morrow. 
But  when,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, people  came  flocking  into  the 
barrack-yard  by  hundreds,  the 
French  soldiery  and  people    were 


318 


Les  Jcux  Athlt'tiqnes, 


stuns  with  a  andden  enthusiasm, 
aud  Uliiivod  thoronslily  well.  They 
ccrtiiiiily  contributed  not  a  little  to 
the  luu  of  the  meetinp:.  A  hurdle- 
rnoo  of  French  soklicrs  in  their 
heavy  haprgy  trousers,  with  as 
mucli  idea  of  jumping  a  hnrdlo  as 
an  elephant,  was  as  laugliahle  a 
sij.'ht  as  I  have  ever  witnessed. 
They  were  not  content  with  falling. 
I'hey  somehow  entwined  their  ftct 
in  the  hurdles,  and  ran  away  with 
them.  The  running  costume  of 
AI]>honse — the  amateur  gentleman 
Alphonso,  I  mean— was  not  bad. 
TiL;ht  groom's  trousers,  with  drab 
gaiters,  high  buttoned-up  waistcoat 
with  sleeves  a  la  Sam  Weller,  and  a 
green  velvet  hunting  cap.  In  this 
get  up  Alphonso  con^i^idered  liimself 
invincible.  However,  wo  will  not 
laugh,  for  Alplionso  is  delighted 
with  athletic  sports,  and  promii-es 
if  we  will  get  up  some  more  next 
year  that  ho  will  be  proficient  at 
everything. 

The  races  went  off  with  tho 
greatest  .spirit,  and  were  a  grand 
success.  Alphonso  nearly  won  one 
race,  but  ho  consoled  himself  after 
defeat  Mith  the  reflection  that  he 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  win 
when  his  op]wnent  was  so  very 
much  taller  than  himself!  There 
was  not  a  hitch  all  day,  and  when  a 
prominent  member  of  last  year's 
Westminster  eleven  jumped  5  feet 
.^  inches  in  height,  and  a  Harrow 
boy  ran  a  mile  in  4  minutes  43 


seconds,  Alphonsc  shrugged  his 
slioulders,  and  murmured, '  .Sapristi ! 
iSacre  Dieu!' 

I  have  mentioned  before  that  the 
ladies  collected  tho  money  for  the 
prizes.  Tliey  did  more  than  this, 
lor  they  gave  tho  prizes  away,  and 
an  intelligent  observer  might  have 
noticed  a  pretty  little  arrangement 
l)y  which  each  winner  received  his 
prize  from  tho  hand  of  — well,  this 
is  betraying  confukncc.  Anyhow, 
there  were  a  go  id  many  blu.slu  s  on 
both  sides.  Women  do  manage 
th(  se  things  so  uncommonly  well. 
Wo  made  the  oM  barrack-yard  ring 
with  hearty  English  cheers  before 
wo  parted,  the  loudest  of  which 
wore  for '  The  Ladies,' '  The  French,' 
and  'The  Captain.'  They  all  <le- 
served  them  thoroughly,  for  to  them 
was  due  all  tho  success  of  'Les 
Jeux  Athletiques.' 

One  word  more.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  om'  exertions  that  day — we 
went  madly  in  for  every  race,  of 
course— they  gave  us  a  ball  after- 
wards. We  kept  it  up  until  five 
o'clock.  It  was  a  moonlight  night, 
very  soft  and  very  clear,  aud  after 
every  round  dnnco  two  imprudent 
young  ]ieople  looked  out  ujion  tho 
deserted  Square  from  an  open  French 
window.  The '  Chic '  girl  said  she  had 
never  met  anybody  who  talked  f-o 
strangely.  Unhappily,  but  pt'rliaps 
luckily  for  me,  1  left,  St.  Malo  for 
England  at  seven  o'clock  the  nt  *. 
morning. 

C.  W.  fe 


rriiiii  the  I'ninting  by  Hoiivifl.] 

THE    OLD,    OLD    STORY. 


fSoc  ''  Syl)iiri'<  to  I.ydia. 


319 

THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY. 

^yftart'^  to  Hjjtita. 

{Considering  ivlud  she  aliouhl  inscribe  rm  her  Tablets.) 

'I>yiiia,  die,  por  omnps 
Te  deos,  oro,  Sj'barin 
Cur  properas  ainundo. 

'  Perdere  ?  cur  npricum 
Oderlt  canipum,  patiens 
I'ulveris  alque  solis  ?' 

Horace,  '  Ad  Lydiam^ 

-|  TAKE  not  oraoksoFlife 

1     From  bounding  pulse  or  writhing  vein; 

From  the  arena's  dusty  strife ; 

From  thought  or  fancy,  joy  or  i^ain. 
I  trust  no  more  the  senses  five ; 

My  lieart  demands  a  subtler  sign, 
And  only  then  is  sure  I  live 

When  it  can  tell  me  I  am  thine. 

'Tis  not  to  mirrors  sought  by  stealth 

I  sue  for  i^roofs  of  manly  grace  ; 
I  do  not  gather  signs  of  health 

From  forehead  smooth  and  ruddy  face; 
I  care  no  more  to  gauge  the  swell 

Of  lungs  within  a  heaving  chest ; 
If  my  heart  tell  me  all  is  well — 

jNIy  heart  and  thou— I  leave  the  rest. 

It  is  not  from  the  flying  leap ; 

The  well-thewcd  limb  of  might  and  lengttSf 
The  voice,  like  Stentor's,  loud  and  deep — 

'Tis  not  from  these  I  prove  my  strength. 
I  reck  no  more  of  outward  show, 

Whilst  powers  unseen  to  me  belong; 
Alcides'  self  might  fear  a  blow 

When  thy  love  bids  me  to  be  strong. 

I  do  not  count  my  hoarded  gold 

Till  even  the  growing  figures  tire ; 
I  reckon  not  the  mines  I  hold  ; 

The  jewels  and  the  stones  of  fire. 
I  do  not  tell  my  gems  of  art, 

Nor  treasures  of  the  land  and  sea ; 
I  cast  out  all  to  fill  my  heart 

With  more  than  Croesus'  wealth  in  thee. 

I  do  not  ask  the  painless  day. 

The  unconscious  night  and  dreamless  sleep. 
The  song,  the  dance,  the  shifting  play. 

The  dearer  joys  that  bid  me  weep — 


320  The  Oil,  Old  Siny. 

Not  tlioso  I  ftslc,  in  doubtful  tone, 
If  tlioy  will  (lci.2;n  my  life  to  bless; 

Why  mock  their  \V( akiuss ?  thou  ulono 
The  secret  hast  of  happiness. 

When  I  would  know  if  cloudless  li.cjht 

And  golden  weather  bless  the  day; 
If  pcntlencss  lirood  o'er  the  night, 

And  all  but  ]ieaoe  is  far  away: 
I  do  not  adv  if  storms  are  fled; 

If  sun  or  moon  is  bright  the  whilo 
All  things  are  gathered  to  a  head — 

I  question  only,    Dost  thou  smilo? 

I  do  not  ask  my  halting  mind 

If  I  flm  witty  or  am  wiso; 
If  I  am  pi'iful  or  kind; 

Or  gallant  in  a  thousand  eyes, 
I  reek  not  of  the  world  without ; 

I  would  not  ray  own  judgment  prove; 
My  heart  resolves  me  of  my  doubt: 

I  am  all  thtsc  if  thou  dost  love. 

With  soul  as  Vestal's  fair  and  pure; 

With  heart  like  Sa]ipho's  in  a  flame; 
Both  in  one  tender  word  secure. 

Upon  thy  tablets  write  my  name. 
And  near  it  write  this  burning  plea:— 

Half  of  ray  life  is,  to  be  thino  ; 
Trcm'iles  the  other  half  with  thee— 

The  other  half  -  t'lat  thou  art  mine  I 


A.  u.  a. 


321 


A  ROMANCE  IN  A  BOARDING  HOUSE. 


A  FEW  ycai's  ago,  on  my  return 
from  India,  I  was  perplexed 
where  to  locate  myself  for  the 
winter  months.  I  did  not  at  all 
relish  the  idea  of  entering  a  new 
house  at  such  an  unfavourable 
season;  so  my  friends  advised  me 
to  board  somewhere  till  the  spring 
of  the  coming  year,  and  in  the 
mean  time  I  could  look  about  me, 
and  arrange  my  future  plans.  I 
resolved  to  follow  this  advice,  and  it 
was  even  suggested  to  my  mind, 
that  if  I  found  this  style  of  living 
agreeable,  I  might  continue  it  for 
the  whole  year  that  must  elapse 
before  my  husband  joined  me,  in 
preference  to  burdening  myself, 
while  alone,  with  the  responsibility 
of  a  house  of  my  own. 

According  to  further  instructions 
from  obliging  friends,  I  caused  an 
advertisement  to  be  inserted  in  the 
'  Tinies,'  to  the  effect  '  That  a  lady 
just  returned  from  India  required 
board  and  residence,  where  she 
would  have  pleasant  and  select 
society,  and  a  comfortable  home,'  in 
return  for  liberal  remuneration.' 

I  was  positively  invindated  with 
answers.  Some  from  ladies  who 
'  merely  received  a  few  inmates 
into  their  home  circle  for  the  sake 
of  society,'  but  who  qviite  repudiated 
the  notion  of  keeping  a  '  boarding 
house.'  Some  from  the  widows  of 
professional  men,  who  were  'com- 
pelled, through  the  death  of  their 
lamented  partners,  to  add  to  their 
limited  incomes  by  admitting  stran- 
gers into  the  bosom  of  their  families;' 
but  very  few  who  seemed  to  pride 
themselves  upon  their  'old-esta- 
Iblished  houses,'  the  excellent  table 
kept,  the  patronage  of  distinguished 
foreigners,  and  sociable  whist  even- 
ings,' and  to  none  ot  these  latter 
ones  would  my  friends  hear  of  my 
going ;  though,  for  my  own  part,  I 
scarcely  liked  the  idea  of  intruding 
upon  any  of  those  *  strictly  private 
families,'  who  evidently  tliought  the 
privilege  a  very  great  one,  and 
named  the  remuneration  they  would 
kindly  accept  at  a  proportionately 
high  rate. 

After   useless   and  innumerable 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIV. 


interviews,  besides  a  host  of  letters, 
1  became  thoroughly  stupid  and 
bewildered ;  and  having  arrived  at 
this  point  fell  an  easy  prey  to  one 
who  evidently  understood  the  busi- 
ness most  thoroughly.  Mrs.  Wilson, 
my  captor,  took  great  pains  to  im- 
press me  with  the  fact  that  her 
connections  were  most  'genteel,' 
and,  therefore,  '  she  never  took  any 
one  into  her  house  but  people  of  the 
highest  respectability;  for  she  had 
too  much  regard  for  the  memory  of 
the  late  Mr.  Wilson  to  act  other- 
wise.' 

Her  house  was  situated  in  a  nice 
part  01  Bayswater ;  it  was  well  fur- 
nished, and  well  managed  by  the 
clever  widow,  who  seemed  to  know 
how  to  look  after  her  own  interests ; 
and,  in  spite  of  '  former  days,'  when 
she  '  had  lavished  money  recklessly/ 
she  had  acquired  since  as  fair  a 
notion  of  the  value  of  £  s.  d.  as  it 
was  possible  for  any  one  to  have  if 
they  had  studied  the-  matter  all  their 
lives. 

When  I  made  my  cUhut  in  the 
drawing-room  the  first  evening  of 
my  arrival,  shortly  before  dinner 
was  announced,  in  addition  to  a  sort 
of  general  introduction,  Mrs. Wilson 
favoured  me  with  an  especial  one 
to  the  few  whom  she  evidently  con- 
sidered the  crime,  of  th^  assembly. 

They  were,  Mrs.  Colonel  Stacey, 
a  tall,  stiff  old  lady,  with  white  hair 
and  a  faded  but  still  handsome  face, 
and  the  manner  and  deportment  of 
a  perfect  gentlewoman;  but,  as  I 
soon  discovered,  one  who  was  ever . 
on  the  alert  to  obtain  the  best  of 
everything  for  herself,  and  take  out 
the  full  value  of  her  money.  Mrs. 
Wilson  thought  it  such  an  advan- 
tage to  have  a  real  colonel's  widow, 
that  she  yielded  to  her  whims  and 
fancies  (not  a  few),  and  consulted 
her  taste  in  the  choice  of  viands, 
&c. ;  and  Mrs.  Stacey  took  good  care 
to  keep  up  this  feeling,  and  managed 
to  inspire,  not  only  Mrs.  Wilson,  but 
the  other  inmates  of  the  establish- 
ment, with  a  certain  amount  of  awe 
towards  her.  She  did  not  receive 
me  with  much  cordiality,  and  I  think 
it  was  because  she  had  a  kind  of 


322 


A  lioni'inre  in  a  Boarding  House, 


iilea  that  I  nii'i^lit  try  to  usurp  licr 
place,  on  tlie  Ktr(.nf:rth  of  couiing 
from  luilia;  but  she  was  slij^lilly  rc- 
assuretl  wlicn  sho  lieard  tliat  my 
hushaiul  '  only '  licKl  a  civil  a])point- 
mcut.  Mrs.  and  ^liss  rrinirosu,  on 
the  contrary,  ovirwlulmi'd  nie  with 
civilities,  and  nii^rht  liave  known  mo 
for  years.  The  former  bore  the  re- 
mains of  p(x)d  look>,  and  was  at- 
tired in  the  deepest  of  widow's 
wectls,  a  style  of  dress  wliich  be- 
came her,  and  was  for  this  reason 
still  worn;  for  her  hu.sband,  1 
found,  liad  been  defunct  many  years. 
Still  she  never  made  any  allu- 
sions to  him  without  heartrcnfiing 
sighs,  and  even  applications  to  her 
eyes  of  a  deeply  black-bordered 
cambric  pocket-handkerchief;  and 
she  fastened  her  collar  with  a  fune- 
real brooch  containing  his  hair. 

Lavinia  Primrose  was  a  gushing, 
sentimental  young  lady  (of  seven 
or  eight-and-tweuty  I  should  have 
said,  had  her  mother  not  told  me 
that  she  was  just  nineteen).  She 
was  attired  in  light  muslin  and 
fluttering  ribl)ons,  and  though  not 
bad-looking,  she  spoilt  herself  by 
an  unmeaning  simper,  and  a  profn- 
.sion  of  feathery  ringlets  that  made 
her  head  look  very  much  like  a  mop. 

Mrs.  Primrose  was  quite  confiden- 
tial, and  during  the  little  time  we 
waited  for  dinner,  she  told  me  that 
she  had  to  make  many  .sacrifices  for 
lier  dear  girl's  health,  which  was 
very  delicate.  She  had  given  up  a 
perfect '  mansion '  near  town,  because 
the  air  was  not  considered  so  good  ; 
and  she  submitted  to  the  di.scom- 
lorts  of  a  boarding  hou.se  that  sho 
might  be  ready  to  .start  off  for  Italy 
at  the  slightest  appearance  of  a 
change  for  the  worse,  for  the  dear 
girl,  she  feared,  was  consumptive, 
ami  of  such  a  nervous,  linely- 
wrought  nature,  that  she  required 
the  most  tender  care. 

For  my  own  part  I  could  not  dis- 
cover anything  j)articularly  delicate 
in  the  round  fiwe  and  rather  too 
plump  figure  of  the  young  lady  ;  so 
I  ventured  to  suggest  that  she 
would  very  likely  outgrow  the 
dreaded  symptoms,  and  that  even 
now  I  could  not  pay  her  the 
bad  compliment  to  say  sho  looked 
ill. 


Mrs.  Primrose  thanked  me  for  my 
symi)athy  with  her  handkerchief 
raiseil  to  her  lyes,  and  added  tiiat 
dear  Livy's  comjilexion  was  so  bril- 
liant that  it  deceived  many  jx-oplo. 
She  then  pi)inted  out  a  Captain 
Vernon,  an<l  in  a  loud  whisper, 
which  I  felt  sure  lie  heard,  informed 
nie  that  he  was  the  younger  son  of  a 
noble  family,  but  had  the  advantage 
over  most  younger  .sons,  of  inherit- 
ing a  country  estate  and  fine  for- 
tune from  his  mother ;  and  having 
seen  plenty  of  active  service,  he  had 
now  retired  on  his  laurels,  and  sho 
thought  would  take  a  wife  and  settle 
down  to  a  quiet  home  life.  She  said 
this  so  significantly,  that  I  could 
only  conclude  that  her  daughter 
was  his  choice  ;  and  yet,  as  1  looked 
at  him,  I  could  scarcely  think  such 
a  man  would  choose  such  a  woman. 
He  was  apparently  about  forty,  and 
though  not  jx)sitively  handsome, 
there  was  something  noble  and. 
aristocratic  in  his  face,  and  soldier- 
like and  commanding  in  his  tall,  fine 
figure.  The  expression  of  his  clear 
blue  eyes  was  frank  and  open,  and 
the  lines  of  his  mouth  firm  and  de- 
cided, with  a  touch  of  satire.  Ho 
was  polite  and  attentive  to  all  the 
ladies,  and  if  rather  more  so  to 
Lavinia  than  to  the  rest,  it  was 
apparently  Kcau.se  she  drew  it 
furth.  At  dinner  1  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  ob.serving  the  rest  of  the 
company.  There  were  two  sisters, 
Mit^s  White  and  ^liss  IJella  White; 
the  elder  a  noi.sy,  rather  vulgar 
woman,  who  made  fun  of  every  one 
in  a  good-tempered  .sort  of  way,  and 
laughed  long  and  loudly  at  her  own 
jokes,  whi(!h  sometimes  wont  homo 
too  severely  to  be  enjoyed  by  those 
against  whom  they  were  directed; 
the  younger  sister  was  quieter,  and 
pretended  to  l)e  shocked  at  '  Fan's' 
outbursts,  but  she  was  more  ob- 
jectionable with  her  afftctation  and 
over-attempts  to  l)e  a  lady  llian  the 
other  with  her  noi.se  ami  coar.seues.s. 
There  was  a  quiet  old  lady  wiio  did 
not  talk  much,  and  took  everything 
and  everybody  ju.st  as  she  found 
them.  A  thin,  tall,  elderly  city 
gentleman  took  the  liottom  ot  the 
tat)le;  he  wore  a  rusty  black  tail- 
coat, a  stiff  white  neckcloth,  and 
high  shirt-collars:   liis  manner  was 


A  Romance  in  a  Boardimj  House. 


823 


grave  and  impressive,  and  he  digni- 
fied every  lady  with  the  appellation 
of '  Mum,'  and  tried  to  lie  particu- 
larly civil  to  the  eldest  Miss  White. 
There  was  also  a  stout  stockbroker, 
who  wore  a  short  cut-away  coat 
and  a  coloured  necktie,  with  a  red 
blotchy  face  and  straight  brown 
hair,  who  never  looked  off  his  plate 
(except  to  address  Miss  Bella 
White),  and  kept  one  in  a  state  of 
alarm  lest  he  should  have  a  fit  of 
apoplexy. 

Remarks  upon  the  fare  at  table 
were  pretty  freely  made  on  all  sides, 
and  I  was  surprised  to  find  how 
coolly  our  hostess  listened  to  them 
(they  would  have  been  in  such  a 
diiferent  strain  had  the  company 
been  'visitors'  instead  of  'boarders'), 
Mrs.  Stacey  complained  of  every- 
thing, and  kept  enumerating  the 
things  she  was  sure  must  be  in 
season,  and  '  quite  reasonable,'  and 
wondering  that  Mrs.  Wilson  did  not 
see  about  them ;  still  she  managed 
to  make  a  very  good  dinner,  and 
partook  of  every  dish  with  the  air 
of  a  martyr. 

The  fair  Lavinia's  appetite  w^as 
such  as  might  be  expected  from  the 
delicate  creature  her  mother  had 
described  her  to  be ;  but  as  I  after- 
wards found  that  she  made  an  early 
tea  in  her  own  room  at  five  oclock, 
I  was  no  longer  surprised.  But 
she  seemed  to  think  that  her  neigh- 
bour, the  Captain,  ought  not  to  be 
hungry  either,  for  she  plied  him 
continually  with  questions,  and  al- 
lowed him  little  time  for  eating. 

After  we  had  returned  to  the 
drawing-room,  the  eldest  Miss  White 
sat  by  me  and  entered  into  conver- 
sation, and  kept  me  on  what  is 
called  '  thorns,'  by  the  remarks  she 
made  about  every  one  in  her  loud 
key.  She  informed  me  that  Captain 
Vernon  had  been  to  Mrs,  Wilson's 
four  years  running,  and  that  La- 
vinia  Primrose  and  her  mother  were 
trying  hard  to  catch  him,  as  he 
was  worth  having ;  that  it  was  all 
very  fine  of  TJrs.  Primrose  to  ape 
the  grand  lady  now,  but  that  she 
could  remember  the  time,  not  so 
very  far  back  either,  when  Mrs. 
Primrose  had  kept  the  '  Green 
Dragon'  in  Cheapside,  and  that 
Lavinia's  fortune  was  not  anything 


worth  making  a  fuss  over ;  then  she 
laughed  at  the  notion  of  her  1  ein^ 
only  nineteen,  and  said  she  would 
vouch  for  her  being  at  least  thirty. 

I  said  that  it  appeared  to  mo 
rather  a  pleasant  way  of  living  as 
we  were  doing. 

'  Yes,  indeed  it  is,'  she  replied. 
'  There  is  no  place  like  a  boarding 
house  for  fun  and  love-matches. 
Bell  and  I  have  been  in  no  end,  but 
I  do  believe  this  is  poor  Bell's  last 
one,  for  Jones  there  (indicating  the 
apoplectic  gentleman)  is  evidently 
smitten;  and  I  believe  she  will  give 
in,  and  leave  me  in  the  lurch  after 
all,  though  we  both  always  vowed 
to  remain  single.' 

'  But  another  gentleman  is  very 
attentive  to  you,'  I  replied,  seeing 
that  the  free-and-easy  style  was  the 
custom  of  the  house. 

'  Did  you  though?'  said  Miss 
White,  quite  pleased.  '  Well,  1 
rather  think  he  has  a  hankering 
after  my  ten  thousand  poimds,  but 
he  won't  get  it ;  for  I  am  not  to  be 
taken  in  with  soft  words  and  fine 
speeches,  and  intend  to  lead  a  jolly 
life,  bound  to  obey  no  man's  un- 
reasonable whims  and  fimcies.' 

While  chatting  thus  the  door 
opened,  and  a  young  lady,  whom  I 
had  not  yet  seen,  entered.  Her 
beauty  could  not  fail  to  attract  in- 
stant attention ;  her  features  were 
regulai',  her  complexion  that  pecu- 
liar waxy  pink  and  white,  her  eyes 
a  clear  true  blue,  and  her  hai'-, 
which  was  perfectly  golden,  was 
drawn  in  wavy  luxuriance  off  her 
broad  forehead,  and  gathered  at  the 
back  into  a  massive  bow.  She  was 
tall,  with  a  figure  of  rounded  pro- 
portions, and  even  in  her  dress  of 
jilain  black  alpaca,  and  simple  linen 
collar  and  cuffs,  she  looked  stylish 
and  lady-like. 

'  Who  is  that  lovely  girl  ?'  I  asked 
eagerly  of  Miss  White. 

'  Oh !  that  is  Miss  Maitland.  Her 
father  was  a  poor  curate,  who  died 
from  overwork  and  starvation,  and 
his  wife  soon  followed,  leaving  this 
girl  alone  without  a  relation  in  the 
world ;  so  she  turned  her  musical 
talents  to  account,  and  gives  lessons 
all  day.  Mrs.  Wilson  knew  some- 
thing of  her,  I  fancy,  and  she  has 
been  here  for  tho  last  two  years, 

Y    2 


824 


A  Romance  i'm  a  Boarding  House. 


4 


helping  to  amtise  the  iHiankrs,  nnd 
paying  sonu'  very  trilling  sum  I'or  n 
home.  SIr'  plays  and  sinf.'s  very 
well,  fts  you  will  luar  pusiiitly ;  but 
until  Mi's.  Stncoy  lm.s  (inislKd  her 
nap  the  piano  is  not  aliowal  to  bo 
touchcil. 

'  Mi."^  Maitland  looks  sad,'  I  re- 
marked. 

'  Oh,  a.s  for  that,' she  replied,  'she 
■won't  1k!  friendly  with  any  one,  but 
sits  like  a  statue,  without  speakinjj. 
La.st  winter  I  faiirifd  the  Captain 
Wivs  struck  with  her  pretty  face, 
but  she  tos.ced  her  head  at  him,  and 
pave  herself  as  many  airs  as  tlimiph 
she  had  Ix'en  a  young  woman  of 
fortune,  instead  of  a  poor  niusic- 
ttacher  tramping  the  streets  of 
London,  and  going  from  house  to 
hou.se,  wet  or  fine,  for  hulf-a-crown 
an  hour.' 

'  Poor  girl,'  I  said,  compassion- 
ately. '  It  is  a  sad  position  for  one 
lx)rn  a  lady,  and  endowed  with 
beauty  and  talents.' 

'  Well,  so  it  is,'  .said  Miss  White; 
'  and  that  is  why  I  say  there  is  no- 
thing like  a  good  trade.  Now  my 
father  rose  from  a  mere  shojiboy, 
but  he  managed  to  leave  twenty 
thousand  pounds  behind  him;  and, 
without  seeking  it,  I  get  more  re- 
spect and  attention,  Ixcause  I  am 
indopon<leut,  than  the  clergyman's 
daughter,  who  jirobably  c(jngni- 
tulates  herself  upon  having  no 
relations  or  friends  in  trade.' 

Mr.".  Stacey  now  made  her  rc- 
apix^irance,  and  I  noticed  that  she 
gave  the  young  musician  a  patro- 
nizing shake  of  the  hand,  and  as 
soon  as  settled  in  her  arm-chair, 
called  out,  '  Now  then,  my  dear, 
give  us  one  of  your  pretty  songs.' 
Captain  ^'ernon  advanced  to  lead 
her  to  the  ])iano,  and  though  he  had 
but  greet<(l  her  with  a  l)ow  when 
she  fii-st  came  in,  ho  now  held  out 
his  hand.  She  took  it  formally, 
and  th(  n  intimated,  that  as  she 
sang  ami  i)layed  wiihout  notes,  she 
wimld  flispense  with  his  presence  at 
the  piano. 

He  looked  vexed,  and  retunied 
to  his  ])lace  by  I>avinia's  side,  and 
U'gan  talking  to  her  in  a  most 
animated  strain.  ,  Every  now  and 
then  sho  interrupted  him  with, 
'  La!   Captain  Vernon,    don't    talk 


such  nonsense !  you  make  mo  quite 
vain.'  Then  there  was  the  mother's 
echo.  '  Now,  Captain,  I  mustn't 
let  you  excite  Livy  so,  or  sho  won't 
shvp  a  winlj  all  night.'  But  Miss 
Maitland  befnm  to  sing,  and  tho 
hum  of  tongues  ceased,  ller  voice 
was  rejiU'te  with  exquisite  sweet- 
ness, and  she  .sang  with  such  simple, 
imafTected  taste  and  expression,  that 
I  introihiced  myself,  on  ])urpose  to 
thank  her  f(jr  the  treat  .she  had 
given  mo.  She  .seemed  ])leased,  and 
accorded  mo  a  bright  smile,  which 
at  once  won  my  heart.  Iler  office 
was  no  .sinecure,  for  she  was  called 
iipon  for  song  after  song,  and  looked 
quite  weary  and  worn  when  wo 
parted  for  the  niglit. 

From  that  first  evening  Hilda 
Maitland  wound  herself  uncon- 
sciously round  my  affections  in  a 
manner  that  surprised  my.sclf.  First, 
my  advances  of  friendshii)  were  as 
coldly  treated  as  tho.se  of  others, 
but  at  last  she  saw  that  mine  was 
not  insolent  patronage,  but  warm 
liking,  and  then  she  seemed  quite 
glad  to  have  found  a  true  friend. 

She  told  me  that  all  her  life,  short 
as  it  was,  had  l)een  one  continued 
chain  of  trials  and  privations;  for 
her  father  hail,  as  ^li.ss  White  .said, 
literally  died  of  starvation,  and  for 
.some  time  .she  was  oidy  able  to 
earn  very  little;  so  that  when  her 
mother  also  laid  down  the  burden 
of  life,  it  was  for  her  own  loneliness 
only  that  .she  grieved.  Now  she 
could  make  .sufficient  to  support 
herself,  and,  with  strict  economy, 
save  a  little;  but  it  was  hard,  try- 
ing w'ork,  ami  a  joyless  life  for  ono 
young  and  gifted. 

Lavinia  Primro.se  di.slikcd  her 
cordially,  for  she  was  jealous  of  her 
suiHjrior  attractions,  and  feared  her 
as  a  rival,  and  she  .sf)uglit  to  annoy 
and  mortify  her  in  every  way  wor- 
thy of  one  .so  narrow-minded. 
When  I  had  ma<le  my  ob.servations 
for  a  short  time,  I  likewise  fancied 
tImtCa|(tain  Vernon  admired  Hilda, 
but  she  gave  him  no  visible  encou- 
ragement, and  in  a  .sort  of  petti.sh 
piquo  he  flirted  with  Miss  Primro.sc, 
for  whom  it  was  easy  to  sec  he  did 
not  care  a  straw.  But  as  Hilda 
never  intrmluced  the  Captain's  name 
in  our  convei*sations,  1  thought  it 


A  Romance  in  a  Boarding  House. 


325 


better  not  to  broach  the  subject 
either. 

One  moriiiug  Mrs.  Wilson  (who 
from  the  commenceraont  of  my 
sojourn  in  her  housq  had  seemed  to 
think  that  I  was  an  easily-managed 
boarder)  came  into  my  room  in 
great  tribulation,  to  tell  me  that 
the  '  Primroses '  threatened  to  leave 
at  the  end  of  their  week,  unless 
Miss  Maitland  was  instantly  sent 
£^way ;  as  they  considered  her  a  low, 
designing  person,  and  declared  that 
her  manner  with  Captain  Vernon 
was  forward  and  presuming. 

'  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  two  good 
payers,  nor  do  I  like  sending  the 
poor  girl  among  strangers  again, 
as  I  really  don't  think  she  has 
meant  any  harm,'  she  continued ; 
'  besides  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Colonel 
Staccy  would  like  to  be  without 
music  now ;  it  was  one  of  the  things 
that  made  her  come  to  live  here.' 

'  Tell  Mrs.  Primrose  and  her 
daughter  that  you  cannot  possibly 
comply  with  their  request,  Mrs. 
Wilson,'  1  said,  '  for  their  accusa- 
tions are  perfectly  unfounded ;  and 
should  Miss  Maitland  have  to  leave 
in  consequence  I  shall  accompany 
her ;  for,  like  yourself,  I  do  not  think 
it  right  to  throw  a  beautiful  young 
woman  like  she  is  needlessly  about 
the  world ;  there  are  too  many 
wicked  enough  to  take  advantage 
of  youth  and  innocence.  Miss  La- 
vinia  is  herself  the  one  whose  con- 
duct is  improper,  but  my  own  idea 
is  that  she  will  never  win  her  game. 
One  thing,  however,  you  may  be 
sure  of — that  they  will  not  leave  so 
long  as  Captain  Vernon  remains.' 

And  thus  the  storm  passed  over ; 
but  I  think  Mrs.  Wilson  gave  Hilda 
a  few  hints  about  what  had  passed, 
tor  her  manner  towards  Vernon  was 
more  freezing  than  ever;  though, 
h'om  certain  signs,  which  a  woman 
alone  can  detect,  I  began  to  feel 
sure  that  she  really  loved  him,  but 
for  some  private  reasons  she  would 
not  allow  him  to  see  it. 

After  this  Lavinia  seemed  seized 
with  a  violent  friendship  for  Hilda, 
and  sought  her  company  as  much 
as  she  had  hitherto  despised  it.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  talk  oi  hav- 
ing a  few  singing  lessons  from  her, 
but  this  Miss  Maitland  declined,  on 


the  plea  that  her  time  was  fully 
occupied.  But  in  spite  of  her 
drawing  back  Lavinia  would  confide 
to  her  that  Captain  Vernon  had  all 
but  made  the  offer  to  her,  and  she 
did  not  think  it  would  be  long-  be- 
fore she  became  Mrs.  Vernon. 
'  And  do  you  know,'  she  continued, 
giggling,  '  at  one  time  1  was  a  little 
jealous  of  you,  but  the  Captain  has 
assured  me  without  a  cause.' 

•  Quite  so,'  replied  Hilda,  coldly, 
but  she  did  not  encourage  further 
conversation. 

One  evening  shortly  after  this 
Mrs.  Primrose  addressed  Hilda  in  a 
loud  tone  from  the  fm*ther  end  of 
the  room,  saying : 

'  So  you  would  not  acknowledge 
us  this  afternoon.  Miss  Maitland, 
though  I  bowed,  and  my  daughter 
waved  her  hand.' 

'  I  never  saw  you,  I\Irs.  Primrose,' 
she  reiDlied.  '  But  I  suppose  I  was 
walking  quickly,  as  I  usually 
am.' 

'  No,  not  at  all,'  replied  the  lady, 
significantly.  '1  mean  when  you 
were  in  the  park.  But  it  was  quite 
excusable,  my  dear,  with  such  a 
good-looking  companion  as  you  had 
to  engross  your  attention.  I  sup- 
pose we  shall  be  losing  you  soon  ?' 

'  It  isn't  fair  of  you  to  speak  out 
before  every  one,  ma,'  said  Lavinia, 
with  a  simper.  'Of  course  Miss 
Maitland  will  tell  us  all  about  it  in 
good  time.  But  I  must  say,'  she 
added,  trying  to  look  arch, '  that  you 
are  very  sly  about  it.' 

Hilda  blushed  a  deep  crimson, 
but  she  replied,  proudly,  '  I  really 
do  not  understand  you,  ]\Iiss  Prim- 
rose.' Then  catching  Captain  Ver- 
non's eye  fixed  upon  her  with  an 
expression  of  pain  and  surprise, 
she  moved  to  the  piano  without 
another  word. 

Miss  Primrose  had  evidently  ef- 
fected her  object — more  successfully 
even  than  she  had  dared  to  expect ; 
lor  Captain  Vernon,  ungenerous 
though  it  might  be,  was  fully  im- 
pressed with  the  notion  that  Hilda 
was  meeting  some  one  clandestinely, 
and  her  blushes  and  proud  manner 
oi:  disdaining  to  deny  it  still  more 
confirined  the  lielief ;  though  really, 
ii  he  had  reasoned  the  matter  over 
in  his  own  mind,  he  might  have 


326 


A  Romance  !n  a  Boarding  Ilouse. 


ilisoovcred  tliat  as  she  had  no  one 
to  cuutrol  lur  actions,  no  socrecj 
was  needed,  and  if  slie  were  really 
enpaged  she  could  l>e  so  ()])enly. 

To  mo,  in  juivate,  she  said  the 
whole  was  a  fahrication,  as  she  had 
never  even  been  in  the  park;  but 
she  Itegged  nie  to  say  nothing,  as 
she  merely  told  me  because  she 
thou-ht  it  a  duty  to  herself  and  niv 
frieuilship  for  lier. 

A  short  time  after  this  Captain 
Vernon  went  into  the  country,  but 
fixed  the  day  and  liour  of  his  return, 
and  laughingly  said  he  slK)uld  ex- 
pect us  to  welcome  him  back  quite 
joyfully. 

The  day  of  his  return  arrived,  but 
it  was  not  till  evening  that  he  was 
to  come.  Just  as  we  were  sitting 
down  to  dinner  Mr.  Jones  rushed 
in  late,  and  informed  us  that  there 
had  been  a  fearful  accident  to  the 
train  by  which  Captain  Vernon  was 
to  come ;  the  news  had  been  tele- 
graphed up  to  London,  and  every 
one  wa.s  in  consternation,  as  the 
number  of  killed  and  injured  was 
something  fearful.  We  were  all  in 
a  state  of  excitement  and  sorrow  at 
the  tidings,  though  many  of  us 
would  not  think  that  our  frank, 
agreeable  comj)ani(Mi,  so  lately 
among  us  in  health  and  spirits,  was 
now  lying  a  mangled  corpse  or  a 
maimed  suiferer.  Lavinia  was  sup- 
ported from  the  ro9mI)y  her  mother, 
but  she  recovered  sufliciently  to  re- 
apix;ar  after  dinner,  and  reclining 
languidly  on  the  sofa,  .she  alter- 
nately applied  a  smelliiig-bottle  to 
her  nose  and  a  pocket-handkerchief 
to  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  think 
her.self  an  object  of  interest  and 
tender  compassion. 

Tlie  jiDor  Caj)tain'K  Ka<l  death 
might  indeed  l)e  a  blow  to  her  ma- 
trimonial speculations,  but  if  she 
liad  a  heart  it  certainly  remained 
mitouclied. 

I  meant  to  have  .'^lipped  away  to 
have  broken  these  dreiKJfnl  tidings 
to  Hilda  in  tlie  privacy  of  her  own 
room,  for  I  drwided  the  elTect  upon 
her;  however,  just  as  I  was  con- 
templating making  my  exit,  she 
entered,  and  though  deadly  piile, 
seemed  calm  and  collected  as  usual. 
She  was  inunediattly  entertainecl 
with  the  news,  but  coldly  replied 


'  that  she  had  l;e\rd  from  the  .ser- 
vant, and  was  exceedingly  sorry.' 

This  remark  was  so  connnon- 
place  that  1  felt  (piite  angry  with 
her;  but  she  afterwards  confessed 
to  me  that  slid  was  sufl'ering  mar- 
tyrdom, and  a  sort  of  supernatural 
strength  alone  prevented  her  from 
breaking  down  beneath  her  agony; 
but  cruel  eyes  were  lixe<l  upon  her, 
and  she  knew  that  they  would  gloat 
over  her  mi.sery,  so  she  hid  it  deep, 
deep  in  the  recesses  of  her  constant 
heart. 

Mrs.   Stacey  hated   this   kind  of 
dulne.ss,   and  asked,    as    usual,  for 
some  music;  but  for  once  her  will 
was  resisted,   every    one   declaring 
that  it   would  be  most    unfeeling, 
and  Lavmia  adding  tiiat  'she  could 
not  bear  it.'     She  trieil  to  enli.st  Mr. 
Jones's  services  for  her.self,  first  ask- 
ing him  to   draw  her  sofa  a  little 
nearer   the   fire,    then  to  fan    her 
burning  temples,  and  lastly  to  rub 
her  hands;  and  all  the  while  she 
cast  such   tender  glances    towards 
him    that   Miss    Bella   White  was 
alarmed.      Mr.    Jones    was    worth 
catching,  and  Lavinia  thought  that 
he  would  do  to    fill   the  Captain's 
vacant  jjlace ;  though  it  was,  alter  all, 
rather  amusing  to  .see  how  she  gave 
us  all  to  understand  that  there  had 
been  something  between  herself  and 
CajjUiin  Vernon.     Not  that   we  Ikj- 
lieved  it.     All  her  blandishments, 
however,  could  not  draw  Mr.  Jones 
from  his  allegiance  to  the  fair  Bella. 
Perhaps   he  thought   that   her   ten 
thou.sand  j)oiinds  was  more  substan- 
tial than  the  largo  foi'tune   which 
was  t<j  be  .Miss  Primrose's  porti(jn  ; 
anyhow,  he  performed  the  ollices  re- 
(juired  of  him  very  much  as  a  Injar 
might  have  done,  but  he  would  go 
no    farther.     We  had   all    relapsed 
into  a  uiournful  silence,  only  broken 
by  an  occasional    snore  from  .Mrs. 
Stacey  (who  had  grundiled  herself 
into  a  second  naj)),  when  we  were 
startled    by  a   lou(l    knock    at   the 
street-door,  and  the  same  thought 
struck  us  all,  that  it  was  the  body 
of     the     imfortunat*;     man    being 
brought    there,    i)roi)ably    through 
s<jme  card  or  envelojic  in  his  ])(>ckefc 
bearintr  that  address.     Mrs.  Stacey, 
fidly    awakened,    whispered    iu    a 
sharp,  nervous,  audible  tone — 


A  Rom'ince  in  a  Boarding  House. 


827 


'  He  must  not  be  brought  here.  I 
would  not  stay  in  the  house  one 
hoiir  with  a  corpse.' 

]\Irs.  Wilson  had  always  expe- 
rienced great  liberality  from  the 
Captain,  as  she  herself  allowed,  and 
was  really  sorry  for  what  had 
occurred,  but  she  evidently  agreed 
with  Mrs.  Stacey,  that  the  Captain 
living  and  the  Captain  dead  was 
not  quite  the  same  thing  ;  so,  giving 
a  reassuring  nod  to  the  old  lady,  she 
prepared  to  leave  the  room,  in  order 
to  refuse  admittance  to  the  unwel- 
come object.  Before  she  could  reach 
the  door,  however,  it  wtis  flung 
open,  and  in  came  Captain  Vernon 
himself,  as  full  of  health  and  spirits 
as  when  he  parted  from  us. 

'  Mary  has  just  informed  me  of 
my  own  death,'  he  exclaimed,  gaily ; 
'  in  fact,  she  could  not  quite  believe 
that  I  was  actually  flesh  and  blood, 
till  she  had  carefully  mspected  me 
by  the  gas-lamp.  She  said,  • "  Yon 
was  all  awful  cut  up ;"  for  which  I 
feel  exceedingly  flattered.'  Then  he 
added,  more  seriously, '  I  am  thank- 
ful that  I  came  up  bv  an  earlier 
train,  or  I  might  indeed  now  be 
lying  a  mangled  corpse,  like  so 
many  other  poor  creatures.  On  my 
arrival  in  town  I  met  an  old  fellow- 
offlcer,  who  insisted  upon  my  dining 
with  him  at  his  club,  and  though  he 
tried  hard  to  persuade  me  to  linger 
over  the  wine,  I  was  not  to  be  en- 
ticed ;  for,  as  I  had  told  you  to  ex- 
pect me  this  evening,  and  taking  it 
for  granted  that  you  would  all  miss 
my  society,  I  hastened  away  as  soon 
as  possible;  though  had  I  known 
that  my  friends  were  going  to  be  so 
kindly  anxious  on  my  account,  I 
certainly  would  not  have  subjected 
them  to  it.' 

We  all  congratulated  him  warmly 
on  his  providential  escape;  and  La- 
vinia,  thinking  this  a  favourable 
moment  for  forcing  a  declaration 
from  her  dilatory  swain,  detained 
the  hand  he  held  out  to  her,  and 
then  went  off  into  violent  hysterics. 
Mrs.  Primrose  expressed  frantic 
alarm,  declaring  that  no  one  knew 
what  her  dear  sensitive  child  had 
suffered  in  the  last  few  hours  ;  and 
she  implored  the  captain  to  speak 
to,  and  soothe  her,  and  '  not  let  her 
lie  tliere  and  die.' 


He  looked  uncomfortable,  and  was 
beginning  to  say  something  expres- 
sive of  thanks  for  so  much  interest 
on  his  behalf,  when  his  glance  fell 
upon  a  prostrate  figure  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  room.  We  had  all 
forgotten  Hilda  Maitland,  and  there 
she  lay,  pale  and  deathlike. 

With  ]\Iiss  Primrose,  I,  too, 
thought — now  is  the  time  to  test 
his  real  feelings :  so  I  whispered — 

'  The  shock  of  seeing  you  safe, 
after  the  agonizing  news,  has  been 
too  much  for  her,  poor  girl !' 

'  Is  this  really  on  my  account  ?' 
he  replied,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of 
hapi^iness  lighting  up  his  manly 
features. 

I  nodded  an  assent. 

Then,  heedless  of  the  wondering 
eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he  folded  her 
in  his  arms,  and  laid  her  drooping 
head  upon  his  breast.  This  scene, 
v'hich  was  not  lost  upon  Lavinia, 
Tiiad3  her  redouble  her  shrieks;  and 
her  mother,  seeing  that  the  game 
was  up,  became  positively  abusive. 

'  Bring  her  tip  to  my  room,'  I 
whispered  to  Captain  Yernon,  point- 
ing to  the  still  unconscious^  Hilda, 
'  for  it  will  not  do  for  her  to  hear  all 
this  abominable  language.' 

'  You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  IMerton,' 
he  replied,  huskily ;  and  lifting  his 
precious  burden  tenderly  as  an 
infant,  he  carried  her  up  in  his 
strong  arms  and  laid  her  upon  my 
bed.  Mrs.  Wilson  followed,  and 
begged  him  to  go  back  and  just  say 
a  few  words  to  Lavinia;  but  he 
sternly  refused,  declaring  that  Miss 
Primrose  never  had  been,  and  never 
would  be,  anything  to  him.  So  our 
good  hostess  was  obliged  to  go  away 
in  despair,  saying,  '  If  poor  dear  Mr. 
Wilson  only  knew  all  the  troubles 
and  annoyances  she  had  to  endure, 
he  wouldn't  rest  in  his  cold  grave.' 

I,  in  my  turn,  began  to  victimize 
the  poor  man,  and  immediately  we 
were  alone  I  said — 

'  Captain  Vernon,  I  take  a  warm 
interest  in  this  poor  girl,  and  for 
her  sake  I  wish  to  know  how  all  this 
is  to  end  ?' 

'  By  her  becoming  my  wife,'  he 
interrupted  quickly ;  '  at  least,'  he 
added  with  sudden  bitterness,  'if 
she  be  free— a  fact  which  I  must 
doubt.' 


328 


A  Rovmnce  in  a  Boarding  House. 


I  rcassmrctl  him  on  this  ]X)int  by 
telliiij?  him  that  the  story  the 
'  Prijiiros<s '  told  tlmt  (hiy  was  all 
a  fiihrication,  inteiKkd  to  mislead 
hiiii,  but  1  tinnly  believed  that  the 
injured  pirl  cared  only  for  him.  At 
this  moment  she  oivned  her  larpe 
blue  (Vis,  and  as  her  jjlance  fell 
ui>on  Vernon  they  lost  their  terrified 
expression,  and  closeil  apain  as  if 
satisfied,  while  she  murmured,  with 
a  siph  of  relief, '  Safe  !  safe !' 

This  was  a  stronger  proof  than 
any  surmises  of  mine ;  and  the  de- 
lightwl  lover  clasped  her  to  him 
and  exclaimed — 

'Hilda!  ^ly  own  darling !  You 
love  me  in  spite  of  your  cruel  cold- 
ness, and  now  that  I  know  it 
nothing  shall  come  between  us. 
You  are  mine!' 

Perhaps  it  was  against  the  strict 
rules  of  propriety — but  I  was  not 
accustomed  to  English  society— so 
my  readers  must  not  judge  my 
morals  harshly  when  I  confes.s,  that 
at  this  ix)int  I  became  deeply  in- 
terested in  what  was  passing  with- 
out, .and  I  allowed  the  lovers  to 
whisper  their  mutual  talc  of  doubts 
and  fears,  hoj^e  and  happiness ; 
while,  Avith  my  face  glued  against 
the  window  at  the  other  end  of  the 
r(X)m,  I  sought  to  distinguish  the 
dusky  figures  who  were  threading 
their  way  through  the  dim,  dismal- 
looking  streets  on  that  tlreary  Xo- 
vemlter  night.  At  length  I  disco- 
vered that  lovers  are  the  most 
selfish  creatures  in  the  world,  and  I 
might  have  kept  my  station  all 
night  for  aught  they  cared ;  so  I 
confronted  them,  and  requested  the 
Captain  to  make  his  adieux.  But 
before  I  could  get  rid  of  the  tire- 
some fellow  he  would  make  me  all 
sorts  of  jiretty  speeches,  which  silly 
little  Hilda  ecli(xd.  At  htst  he  went, 
and  I  insi.ste<l  upon  the  excited 
girl  sharing  my  bed  with  me  in- 
stead of  returning  to  her  own  attic. 

At  an  early  hour  the  next  morn- 
ing ^Irs.  and  Miss  Primrose  de- 
camped, saying  they  could  not  pos- 
sibly remain  another  day  in  a  house 
where  stirh  proceedings  were  al- 
lowed. Mrs.  Wilson  wits  consoled 
for  their  loss  by  the  Captain's  assur- 
ance that,  as  he  was  the  causi-,  she 
should  not  be  any  suft'erer ;  and  I 


suspect  she  was,  on  the  contrary,  a 

very  considerable  gainer. 

•  *  *  * 

Christmas  Day  came  in  clear  and 
frosty,  and  very  pleasantly  we  spent 
it,  having  unanimously  agreed  to 
refuse  all  invitations.  After  dinner, 
under  the  protection  of  a  piece  of 
mistletoi',  the  Ca]itain  ventured  to 
ki.<;s  the  ladies  all  round,  beginning 
with  Mrs.  Colonel  Stacey  (who  re- 
ceived the  siilute  most  graciously, 
coming  from  military  liixs),  and 
ending,  last  but  not  least,  with  his 
fair  Ktrothed.  A  little  later,  under 
the  exhilarating  influence  of  whisky 
punch,  Messrs.  Jones  and  Brown 
intimatetl  that  they  should  likewise 
avail  themselves  of  the  privilege  of 
the  season  ;  but  as  the  proposal  was 
not  encouraged,  Jones  was  satisfied 
with  paying  this  delicate  attention 
to  his  charming  Bella;  and  Brown 
commenced  and  ended  with  the 
buxr  n  hostess,  who  was  miich 
gratified,  and  would  doubtless  have 
t>een  more  so  had  Miss  White  ap- 
peared at  all  jealous. 

On  New  Year's  Day  I  dressed  dear 
Hilda  in  her  bridal  robes,  and  very 
beautiful  she  looked.  She  had  matlo 
objections,  declaring  that  she  wa.s 
too  poor  and  humble  to  wed  with 
one  well-born  and  rich  ;  but  he  re- 
mimled  her  that  she  was  a  lady,  and 
that  was  all  his  friends  cared  alK)ut; 
and  that  she  possessed  his  deepest 
affection  and  gave  lum  hers  in  re- 
turn, and  that  was  all  he  cared 
alM^t.  The  only  point  lie  would 
yield  was,  to  have  the  wedding 
quite  private. 

Every  one  in  the  house  presented 
the  bride  with  some  little  jwrting 
gift.  !Mrs.  Sfacey,  always  gmnd,  ex- 
tracted from  the  (Uptlis  of  a  huge 
chest  a  very  hand.'^ome  but  anti- 
qiiated  Indian  scarf.  As  a  poor, 
toiling,  striving,  music-mistress,  an 
orphan  and  unknown  in  the  world, 
Hilda  Maitlaiiil  met  with  no  sym- 
pathy or  kindne.'^s  from  the  very 
people  who  suddenly  evinced  the 
warmest  friend.sliip  for  her  wl-.n 
she  was  alxiut  to  Ucome  a  rich  and 
liappy  wife,  and  needed  it  not. 

Mr.  Jones  followed  the  gixxl  ex- 
ample, and  brought  his  courtship  to 
a  sjxjcdy  conclusion;  so  Miss  liella 
White  IxK-anie  Mrs.  Jones,  and  the 


A  Bomance  in  a  Boarding  House. 


829 


happy  couple  went  to  reside  at 
Islington.  The  city  gentleman  (Mr, 
Brown)  failing  in  his  attempts  to 
induce  Miss  White  to  sacrifice  her 
freedom,  turned  his  attention  to 
Widow  Wilson,  who  was  not  such  a 
bad  speculation  after  all,  and  they 
very  shortly  after  united  their  in- 
comes and  interests  in  the  bonds  of 
matrimony — the  widow  declaring 
that  'her  late  lamented  husband 
would  rest  more  quietly  in  his 
grave  if  he  knew  she  had  found 
another  protector.' 

My  husband  returned  some 
months  earlier  than  I  anticipated, 
so  we  settled  in  a  home  of  our  own, 
and  have  since  had  the  pleasure  of 
entertaining  Captain  and  JVIrs.  Ver- 
non and  their  infant  son. 

Lavinia  Primrose,  I  hear,  is  at 
last  successful  in  her  matrimonial 
attempts,  and  is  about  to  become 
Baroness  von  Schlossenhausen.  The 


baron  is  a  bearded,  middle-aged, 
smoking  German,  and  says  that  he 
has  hitherto  been  unjustly  kept  out 
of  his  hereditary  rights,  which 
causes  liim  a  little  inconvenience  in 
the  matter  of  ready  money.  But 
all  tills  will  shortly  be  at  an  end, 
and  he  intends  to  conduct  his  bride 
to  '  Castle  Schlossenhausen,'  where, 
he  adds,  her  charming  mother  will 
always  be  an  honoured  and  welcome 
guest. 

The  baron  is  not  quite  indifferent 
to  the  fair  Lavinia's  large  fortune, 
so  it  is  to  be  hoi)ed  he  will  realize 
it ;  and  as  she  is,  in  her  place,  much 
elated  at  the  idea  of  acquiring  a 
title,  and  living  as  mistress  of  a  real 
castle,  we  trust  that  she  may  not, 
when  too  late,  discover  that,  like 
many  of  the  '  Chateaux  d'Espagne,' 
her  husband's  ancestral  home  is  but 
a  heap  of  ruins. 


330 


SOCIETY  IN  JAPAN. 

A  LL  lustres  fiulo,  all  types  decuy, 
■^*-     That  Time  has  stroiiRth  to  touch  or  tarnish ; 
Japan  itself  receives  to-day 

A  novel  kind  of  varnish. 
All  Asia  moves;  in  far  TIiil»ot 

A  fear  of  change  ]X'rturI>s  tlio  Lama  ; 
You'll  hear  the  railway  whistle  yet 

Arousing  Yokohama ! 

Methinks  it  were  a  theme  for  song, 

This  spread  of  European  knowledge; 
Gasometers  adorn  n()iif,'-Kong, 

Calcutta  keeps  a  cf)llege. 
Pale  Ale  and  Cavendish  maintain 

Our  hold  amongst  the  opium-smokers ; 
Through  Java  jungles  runs  the  train, 

With  Dutchmen  for  the  stokers. 

The  East  is  doomed ;  Romance  is  dead. 

Or  surely  on  the  point  of  d\  ing  ; 
The  travellers'  books  our  boyliood  read 

Would  now  be  reckoned  lying. 
Our  young  illusions  vanish  fast ; 

They're  obsolete— effete— archaic ; 
The  hour  has  come  that  sees  at  last 

The  Orient  prosaic ! 

The  Brother  of  the  Sun  and  ivroon 

Has  long  renounced  his  claims  excessive; 
And  now  we  find  a  new  Tycoon, 

Who  styles  himself  '  progressive.' 
Where  once  the  Dutch  alone  could  trmlo. 

With  many  a  sore  humiliation. 
The  flags  are  flauntingly  displayed 

Of  every  western  nation. 

Our  artist— some  celestial  Leech, 

Or  pig-tailed  Hogarth,  sharp  and  skittish^ 
Has  drawn,  upon  a  nameless  beach, 

A  group  of  aimless  iJritish. 
As  gently,  in  the  suniiner  breeze. 

The  ribbons  and  the  ringlets  flutter, 
They  nil  the  gaping  Japanese 

With  thoughts  they  cannot  utter. 


Society  in  Japan.  833 

The  steamers  in  the  distance  smoke ; 

The  Titan-Steam  begins  its  functions : 
There'll  be  a  market  soon  for  coke, 

"When  junks  give  way  to  junctions ! 
The  oriental  little  boys, 

Who  now  survey  those  startling  vapours, 
Will  learn  to  shout,  with  hideous  noise. 

The  names  of  morning  papers ! 

The  East  is  dying ;  live  the  East ! 

With  hope  we  watch  its  transformation ; 
Our  European  life,  at  least, 

Is  better  than  stagnation. 
The  cycles  of  Cathay  are  run ; 

Begins  the  new,  the  nobler  movement : — 
I'm  half  ashamed  of  making  fun 

Of  Japanese  improvement ! 

W.  J.  P. 


334 


CUmOSTTlKS 
In  tl)r  iHAttrr 

FASniON  is  Pook't.v's  Clmncullor 
of  till'  r.xclit-'iuir,  and  fails  not 
to    tax    tliu   lit;;i'S  with    ingenuity 
and  unrt'k'ntiiig  stcrnneps   of  jmr- 
poso.       Our    nndcrs    will     donttt- 
Icss  rcmcDilKT  Sydney  Sniitli's  Im- 
niurous  iilustntion  of  tlio   iulinito 
varieties  of  taxation  that   hes-et  tlie 
British  taxpa\er.    Alas!  he  omitted 
from  the  terrible  list— which,  in  a 
certain  Fonse.  may  \>e  said  to  bo  the 
English  hliro •roru — the  asst ssments, 
direct  and  indirect,  the  contribu- 
tions,  voluntary  and    involuntary, 
that  Fashion  levies.    These  are  liter- 
ally numherlt  ss,  and  envelope  us  in  a 
mesh  from  which  there  is  no  escajx;. 
'I'he  dresses  of  our  wives  and  sisters, 
the    folds  of   their  petticoats,  the 
dimensions  of   their   bonnets,     the 
arrangement    of   their    curls ;    the 
hats  with  which  we  cover  our  ach- 
ing heads,  the  boots  in  which  we 
torture  our  aching  feet,  the  waist- 
coats tliat  cover  the  British  liosom, 
the   broa<5cloth   that  develops    the 
IJritish  back;   our  horses  and  our 
carriages,  ctur  houses  and  our  fiirni- 
ture;  the  plays  which  we  groan  at, 
the  lK)oks  which  we  nofl  over;  the 
wines  that  we  drink  ourselves,  and 
tl'c  wines  we  give  to  our  friends; 
the  regiments  in  which  we  place  our 
sons,  the  accomjilishments  which  wo 
teach  our  daughters;  the  hours  of 
our  rising  and  sleeping,  dining  and 
tca-ing ;  the  powdered  hair  of  our 
footmen,  and  the  caulillower  wigs  of 
our  coachmen  ;  do  we  not  recognize 
thy  linger  on  each  and  all  of  these, 
O  Fashion  ?    At  homo  and  abroad, 
Fashion    follows  us  closely,  like  a 
phantom  fell;  and  though  the  most 
evanescent   and   vc>latilo  of  si)irits, 
wields,    neverti  elcss,   a  tceptre   of 
iron.      You    don't    like    unsation 
novela,   but  to  read   them   is— the 
fashion.     You  di«n"t  care  about    l>el 
Demonio.'  but  to  adujirc  it  is — the 
fashion.  Youjireferan  old-fashioned 
Engli.>-li    dinier,    full,    substantial, 
abundant,  and  materialistic,  to  the 
lightness  and  insnbstantiality  of  a 
(I  I  III  r   a   hi     Huasr,    but    then — the 
fu.<>hion!     The  wear i.Mime  canter  up 
and  down  liottcu  l{ow  i)erplcxes  you 


OF  F.\SIIION. 

Df  Oiir')S  JTonO. 

with  an  uniittorablo  scn.'ation  of 
t  iiini/\  but — it  is  the  fashion.  Fashion 
makes  you  wear  a  hat  that  pinches 
your  ample  Imnv,  and  j)uts  on 
Amanda's  head  a  bonnet  that  does 
not  become  her.  Fa-bion  tem])t8 
you  to  live  on  a  thou-.unl  a  jear 
when  your  income  is  only  eight 
hundred.  And  Fashion  — to  be 
sparing  of  our  instances  -subscribeel 
for  the  relief  of  wounded  Danes, 
when  English  pluck  and  honesty  no 
longer  stood  to  the  front  in  behalf 
of  the  weak  and  oppressed. 

Dut   perhaps  the   most   personal 
and  humiliating  of  Fa.shion's  j)rovo- 
cations  is  its  interference  wiih  our 
food.     Not  even  the  kitchen  and  the 
sd/fr-a-iiKOif/ir    are    safe     from    its 
vexatious  intrusion.     As  sternly  as 
an  Aberuethy  to  a  dyspe))tic  patient, 
it  says  to  society,  '  VA/s  thou  shalt 
eat,   and   this    tliou  shalt   iiot  eat. 
'J'/i"/ dish  is  vulgar;  yonder /-A'/  is 
obsolete;  none  but  the  cnuniUr  par- 
take of    melted    butter;    only   the 
ignorant    immerse    their    souls   in 
beer'     And  changeable  as  that  sex 
which    is  supposed    to   worsliip   it 
most  huiubly,  Fashion  pro.scribes  in 
1S63   what   it  sanctioned  in   1763; 
and  approves  now,  what  in  the  days 
when  (ieorge  III.  was  king — ronsi'/,- 
pill  IKS — it  most  sternly  conrlemned. 
The  meals  which  now  do  (too  often) 
coldly  lunii-<b  forth   the  table  were 
regarded    with    contempt    by    our 
grt  at- gnat-grand  lathers.    Fancy  Sir 
lioger  de  CoverIe>  examining  a  .--'(////i 
(/is  jiiidri.i   or  a  ]idtt'  ilc  foil-  ;/riis! 
In    like    manner    the    Honourable 
Fitzplantagenet  Smith  woidd  regard 
as    'deuced    low'   the    boars   head 
that  delighted  his  cavalier  ancestor, 
or  the  )Kaci>ck  pie  that  smoked  uj)OU 
Elizabetliaji  boards. 

In  t!i(;  yc'ur  1272,  the  then  Lord 
Miiyor  of  London  issued  an  edict 
which  fixed  the  prices  to  be  paid  for 
certain  articles  of  jirovjsions  at  the 
pence;  a  goose  for  fiv(|)ence;  a 
wild  goose,  ftmrpence;  pigeons, 
three  for  one  penny  ;  mallards,  threo 
foralialfpi  liny  ;  a  |ilover,  one]ienny; 
a  partridge,  three-hall'|ienc(! ;  adozen 
of  laik.s,  one   pcniiy  halfpenny;    a 


Vuriositifs  of  Fashion. 


335 


pheasant,  fourpence ;  a  heron,  six- 
pence ;  a  swan,  three  shillings ;  a 
crane,  three  shillings  ;  the  l)est  pea- 
cock, one  penny  ;  the  best  cnney, 
with  skin,  fourpence ;  and  the  best 
lamb,  from  Christmas  to  Lent,  six- 
pence, at  other  times  of  the  year, 
fourpence. 

Now,  out  of  the  foregoing  list  of 
edibles,  Fashion  nowadays  would 
strike  the  mallard,  the  heron,  the 
swan,  and  the  crane,  and  would 
look  askant  at  the  peacock. 

But  the  peacock  was  of  old  aright 
royal  bird,  that  figured  splendidly  at 
the  banquets  of  the  great,  and  this 
is  how  the  meclijeval  cooks  dished 
up  the  mediaeval  dainty  : — '  Take 
and  flay  off"  the  skin  with  the  fea- 
thers, tail,  and  the  neck  and  head 
thereon ;  then  take  the  iskin  and  all 
the  feathers  and  lay  it  on  the  table 
abroad,  and  strew  thereon  ground 
cumin.  Then  take  the  peacock  and 
roast  him,  and  baste  him  with  raw 
yelks  of  eggs;  and  when  he  is 
roasted,  take  him  off'  and  let  him 
cool  awhile ;  then  take  him  and  sew 
him  in  his  skin,  and  gild  his  comb, 
and  so  serve  him  forth  with  the  last 
course.' 

Our  ancestors  were  very  fond  ot 
savoury  messes  compounded  on  the 
gipsy's  principle,  of  putting  every- 
thing eatable  into  the  same  pot.  A 
curious  mixture  must  have  been 
the  following : — 

'  For  to  make  a  mooste  cboyce  paaste 
of  bamys  to  be  etin  at  ye  Feste  of 
Chrystemasse  (a.d.  1394). 
'  Take  Fesaunt,  Haare,  and  Chy- 
keune,  or  Capounne,  of  eche  oone ; 
w»  ij.  Partruchis,  ij.  Pygeonnes,  and 
ij.  Conynggys;  and  smyte  hem  on 
peces  and  pyke  clene  awaye  p'fro 
(therefrom)  alle  pe  (the)  boonys  p* 
(that)  ye  maye,  and  p'wt  (therewith) 
do  hem  ynto  a  Foyle  (shield  or  case) 
of  gode  paste,  made  craftily  yune 
p^  lykenes  of  a  byrde's  boiiye,  w'  p« 
lyavurs  (livers)  and  hertys,  ij. 
kjdnies  of  shepe  and  jaryes  (forced 
meats)  and  eyrin  (eggs)  made  ynto 
balles.  Caste  p'to  (thereto)  poudre 
of  pepyr,  salte,  spyce,  eysell  (vine- 
gar), and  funges  (mushrooms) 
pykled;  and  panne  (then)  take  p« 
boonys  and  let  hem  seethe  ynne  a 
pot  to  make  a  gode  brothe  p'for 


(tlierefore— /.c,  for  it),  and  do  yt 
ynto  p"  foyle  of  paste,  and  close  hit 
ujipe  faste,  and  bake  y'  wel,  ijn(l  so 
s've  (serve)  y'  fortbe  :  w'  ir  hcdo  of 
oone  of  p°  liyrdes,  stucke  at  p"^  oone 
endo  of  p"  foyle,  and  a  grete  tayle  at 
p'=  op'  and  dyvers  of  hys  longe 
fedyrs  setto  ynne  connynglye  alle 
aboute  hym.' 

If  any  one  of  our  readers  should 
attempt  this  choice  game  pasty,  we 
shall  thank  him  to  make  known  to 
us  the  result  of  his  exiDuriment. 

A  favourite  dish  of  our  ancestors 
was — berring  pie.  In  the  town 
charter  of  Yarmouth  it  is  provided 
that  the  burgesses  shall  send  to  the 
sheriffs  of  Norwich  one  hundred 
herrings,  to  be  made  into  twenty- four 
pies,  and  these  pies  shall  be  de- 
livered to  the  lord  of  the  manor  ot 
East  Carleton,  who  is  to  convey 
them  to  the  king.  Were  tliose 
herrings  fresh,  or  salted  herrings? 
The  latter  was  a  popular  edible  with 
all  classes  of  Englishmen,  and  have 
an  historical  importance  from  their 
connection  with  the  famous  Batnille 
de  Harengs,  one  of  the  last  victories 
won  by  the  English  in  France. 

The  origin  of  the  red  herring  is 
traditionally  this  :  —  A  Yarmouth 
fisherman  had  hung  iip  some  salted 
herrings  in  his  hut,  where  they  re- 
mained for  some  days  exposed  to 
the  smoke  arising  from  a  wood  fire. 
His  attention  being  then  attracted 
to  the  forgotten  dainties,  he  saw — 
ate — and  wondered  !  The  flavour 
so  pleased  his  palate  that,  deeming 
what  was  good  for  a  fisherman  must 
be  equally  good  for  a  king,  he  sent 
some  of  the  smoke-cured  fish  to 
King  John,  who  was  then  at  or  near 
Norwich.  The  monarch  so  much 
approved  of  them  that  he  rewarded 
the  purveyor  by  granting  a  charter 
of  incorporation  to  the  town  of 
which  he  was  a  native. 

Fish,  indeed,  was  a  much  com- 
moner article  of  diet  with  all  classes 
of  society  in  the  'good  old  days' 
than  at  present.  If  it  figured  at 
royal  banquets  as  a  dainty,  it  was 
placed  on  the  tables  of  the  poor  as  a 
necessity.  Nothing  is  more  astonish- 
ing than  the  prejudice  of  the  lower 
orders  now-a-days  against  fish.  AVe 
l.ave  lived   in  seaside  towns,  and 


836 


Curiositieg  of  Fashion. 


seen  it  flnng  forth  ns  ofTnl  l>y  tlio 
lialf-starving  faiuiliis  of  the  lisht-r- 
mt'D,  who  would  thankfully  nooej)t, 
the  next  nionunt,  a  stranger's  alius 
to  jtiirclim^e  a  fraguu-nt  of  rank  and 
unsavoury  meat.  Our  ancestors,  on 
the  other  hand,  were  animated  by  a 
most  laudaMc  icthyophagie  zeal. 
Every  monastery  had  its  '  stews ' 
and  fish|X)ntls,  if  it  did  not  hajiixjn 
to  l)e  jtlantcd  in  pleasant  places  on 
the  bank  of  some  fishful  stream. 
Our  kings  preservetl  their  fisheries 
as  anxiously  a.s  a  country  squire 
preserves  his  game.  Almost  every 
kind  of  llsh  was  good  that  came  to 
our  foretiithcrs'  nets.  Fashion 
sanctioned  sturgeon  and  lampreys 
(l'tfi-o)ii>/zoH  jl(ir/<it ill's) — everybody 
knows  that  Henry  I.  surfeited  him- 
self with  the  latter,  and  died  thereby 
— John  Dories  and  stockfish,  carps 
and  crabs,  mullets,  gurnets,  burs, 
ling,  pilchards,  nearly  every  fish 

'  That  with  their  fins  and  shining  scales 
Glide  under  the  green  waves ;' 

or, 

•  Sporting,  with  quick  glance, 
Show  to  the  sun  their  wav'd  coats  drupp'^  with 
gold.* 

Even  whales,  if  stranded  on  our 
coasts,  were  salted  and  eaten ;  and 
in  the  bill  of  fare  of  the  Goldsmiths' 
Company,  we  find  enninerated 
'liloto,  fi.sh,  fowls,  and  midilles  of 
sturgeons,  salt  lampreys,  congers, 
pike,  bream,  ba.ss,  tench,  chub,  seal, 
and  porfxji-o.' 

In  a  fish-tariff  issued  by  Edward  I., 
mention  is  made  of  '  congers,  lam- 
preys, and  sea-hogs.'  Fancy  Lady 
Mayfair  inviting  her  guests  to  par- 
take of  a  sea-hog!  In  the  Earl  of 
NorthumUrland's  Household  Book 
we  find  allowed  for  'my  Lord  and 
Lmlie's  table,'  '  ij.  pecys  of  salt 
fische,  vj.  pecys  of  salt  fische,  vj. 
l>ecormed  he  rryng,  iiij.  white  her- 
ryng,  or  a  dish  of  sproots  Csjirats).' 
Certes,  a  deep  draught  of  C'aiiarv'  or 
Malvoisic  would  Ix'  needed  to  wa.sh 
down  so  dry  a  repast !  Mackerel,  a 
fish  now  f?o  jxtpular,  is  not  men- 
tioned earlier  than  1247;  but  its 
g(Kxl  qualities  fo  toon  l>ecame  gene- 
rally recognized,  that  we  rtad  of  it 
as  a  I/>ndon  street  cry  in  the  ballad 
of  '  Ix>ndon  Lickpenny.' 

Eels   were  exceedingly   popular, 


and  the  monks  especially  lovod  to 
feed  \ii)on  them.  The  oellaress  of 
IJarking  Abl)ey,  Es.sex.  in  the  ancient 
times  of  that  foundation,  was, 
amongst  other  eatables,  '  to  provide 
■riiss  ind.r  in  Lenton,  and  to  bake 
with  elys  on  Shero  Tuesday ;'  and 
at  Shrovetide  she  was  to  have  ready 
'twelve  stubtKJ  eles  and  nine  schaft 
eles.'  The  regiilatiou  and  maiiiigo- 
ment  for  the  sale  of  eels  seems  to 
have  formed  a  promin<  nt  feature  in 
the  old  ordinances  of  the  Fi.sh- 
mongers'  Company.  There  were 
artificial  receptacles  made  for  eels 
in  our  rivers,  called  Anguilonea, 
constructed  with  rows  of  poles,  that 
they  might  be  more  easily  taken. 
The  cruel  custom  of  salting  eels 
alive  is  mentioned  by  some  old 
writers. 

Fashion  did  not  set  its  seal  upon 
turtle  soups  until  a  comparatively 
recent  date  An  entry  in  the  '  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine,'  August  31,1753, 
proves  that  'calipash  and  calipee' 
were  still  a  rarity: — 'A  turtle, 
weighing  350  lb.,  was  ate  at  the 
King's  Anns  tavern.  Pall  Mall  ;  the 
mouth  of  an  oven  was  taken  down 
to  admit  the  part  to  be  baked.' 
Turtles  have  travelled  eastward 
since  then.  One  does  not  look  now- 
a<.lays  for  turtles  in  IJelgravian 
hotels,  but  at  the  London  Tavein  or 
the  Mansion  Hou.se,  and  associate  it 
as  a  thing  of  course  with  civic 
banquets  and  aldermanic  paunches. 

The  great  ministers  of  Fashion,  its 
agents  in  enforcing  its  decrees  upon 
unhappy  .society,  have  been  the 
cooks— always  a  potent,  a  conceited, 
and,  sooth  to  say,  an  ignorant  fra- 
ternity. From  the  days  of  Aris- 
toxenes  and  Archestratus  to  those 
of  Ude — L'de,  who  refused  four 
hundred  a  year  an<l  a  carriage  when 
offered  by  the  l)uke  of  Kiehmond, 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  because 
there  was  no  Opera  at  Dublin  — from 
the  days  of  Archestratus  to  thos<3  of 
Ude,  tliey  have  studied  rather  the 
disjtlay  of  their  inventive  powers 
than  the  laws  of  physiology  and  the 
stomachs  of  their  patrons.  Ben 
Jonson  fumishes  us  with  an  admir- 
able description  of  one  of  these 
gentry,  who  are  more  solicitous 
alKjut  the  invention  of  wonderful 
novelties  than   the  provision  of  a 


Curiosities  of  Fashioft- 


837 


wholesome  aud  sufficient  dinner  :^ 
'  A  master  cook !'  exclaims  the  poet ; 

•  Why,  he's  tlie  man  of  men 
For  a  professor ;  he  designs,  he  draws; 
He  paints,  he  carves,  he  builds,  he  fortifies; 
Makes  citadels  of  curious  fowl  aud  fish. 
Some  he  dry-dishes,  some  moats   round  with 

broths, 
Mounts  marrow-bones,  cuts  fifty-angled  custards 
Tears  bulwark-pies,  and  for  his  outerworks 
He  raiseth  ramparts  of  immortal  crust; 
And  teacheth  all  the  tactics  at  one  diimer  : 
What  ranks,  what  files  to  put  his  dishes  in ; 
The  whole  art  military.    Then  he  knows 
The  influence  of  the  stars  upon  his  meats. 
And  all  their  seasons,  tempers,  qualities; 
And  so  to  fit  his  relishes  and  sauces. 
He  has  Nature  in  a  pot,  'bove  all  the  chemists. 
Or  airy  brethren  of  the  Rosy-Cross. 
He  is  an  architect,  an  engineer, 
A  soldier,  a  physician,  a  philosopher, 
A  general  mathematician !' 

It  is  the  cooks  who  are  respon- 
sible for  the  untasteful  monstrosi- 
ties and  semi-poisonous  plats  that 
still  figure  in  our  bills  of  fare.  Just 
as  the  cooks  of  ancient  Rome  served 
up  to  their  patrons  the  membranous 
parts  of  the  matrices  of  a  sow,  the 
echinus  or  sea- hedgehog,  the  flesh  of 
young  hawks,  and  especially  rejoiced 
in  a  whole  pig,  boiled  on  one  side 
and  roasted  on  the  other — the  belly 
stuffed  with  thrushes,  and  yolks  of 
eggs,  and  hens,  and  spiced  meats ; 
so  the  cooks  of  modern  London  love 
to  disguise  our  food  with  an  infinite 
variety  of  flavours,  until  the  natural 
is  entirely  lost,  and  the  most  curious 
examiner  is  at  a  loss  to  detect  the 
component  parts  of  any  particular 
dish.  The  ancient  cooks,  with  a 
vegetable,  could  counterfeit  the 
shape  and  the  taste  of  fish  and  flesh. 
We  are  told  that  a  king  of  Bithynia 
having,  in  one  of  his  expeditions, 
strayed  to  a  great  distance  from  the 
seaside,  conceived  a  violent  longing 
for  a  small  fish  called  aphy,  either  a 
pilchard,  an  anchovy,  or  a  herring. 
His  cook  was  a  genius,  however,  and 
CO  aid  conquer  obstacles.  He  had 
no  apihy,  but  he  had  a  turnip.  This 
lie  cut  into  a  perfect  imitation  of  the 
fish ;  then  fried  in  oil,  salted,  and 
powdered  thoroughly  with  the  grains 
of  a  dozen  black  poppies.  His 
majesty  ate,  and  was  delighted ! 
Never  had  he  eaten  a  more  delicious 
apliyl  But  our  modern  cooks  are 
not  inferior  to  the  ancient.  Give 
them  a  partridge  or  a  pheasant,  a 

VOL.  XL— NO.  LXIV. 


veal  cutlet  or  a  mutton  chop,  and 
they  will  so  dish  you  up  each 
savoury  article  that  nothing  of  its 
original  flavour  shall  be  discerniltle ! 
O  Fashion!  0  cooks!  0  confec- 
tioners !  We  are  your  slaves,  your 
victims ;  and  our  stomachs  the  labo- 
ratories in  which  you  coolly  carry 
out  your  experiments.  Look,  for  in- 
stance, at  vegetables:  no  food  more 
wholesome,  or  more  simple,  and  yet 
how  the  cooks  do  torture  and  mani- 
pulate them,  until  the  salutary  pro- 
perties of  these  cibi  innocentes  utterly 
disappear ! 

The  ancients,  however,  set  us  an 
excellent  example  with  respect  to 
the  number  of  guests  one  should 
invite  to  dinner.  Archestratus,  in 
his  '  Gastrology,'  thus  enunciates  his 
opinion: — 

'  I  write  these  precepts  for  immortal  Greece, 
That  round  a  table  delicately  spread. 
Or  three,  or  four,  may  sit  in  choice  repast. 
Or  five  at  most,  who  otherwise  shall  dine 
Are  like  a  troop  marauding  for  their  prey.' 

Just  so.  The  present  writer  has 
before  now  had  the  evil  fortune  to 
make  one  out  of  four-and-twenty 
unhappy  cosmopolitans '  intent  upon 
dining,'  but  bewildered  by  a  Babel 
of  noises,  an  army  of  waiters,  and  a 
Brobdignagian  pile  of  dishes.  The 
Romans  more  wisely  decreed  that 
the  number  should  not  be  less  than 
the  Graces,  or  more  than  the  Muses. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Roman 
gentleman  that  apologized  to  a  friend 
for  not  inviting  him  to  dinner,  be- 
cause his  number  was  complete? 
Thre  was  a  proverb  in  vogue  which 
limited  that  number  to  seven : — 

'  Septem  convivium,  novem  convicium  facere.' 

But  we  should  not  murmur  if  a 
liberal  Amphitryon  invited  us  to 
make  the  twelfth  at  his '  well-spread 
board.' 

Talking  of  dinners  necessarily 
brings  us  to  the  question  of  the 
dining  hour.  Fashion,  in  this  re- 
spect, has  exhibited  the  most 
astounding  vagaries.  In  the  reign 
of  Francis  I.,  the  polite  French  were 
wont  to  say — 

'  Lever  ii  cinq,  diner  h.  neuf ; 
Souper  h  cinq,  coucher  a  neuf; 
Fait  vivre  d'ans  nonante  et  neuf.' 

Froissart  speaks  of  waiting  upon 
the  Duke  of  Lancaster  at  five  o'clock 


338 


Cnriositiea  of  Fashion, 


in  the  ftftornoon,  after  he  had  xupjxd. 
If  onr  aiu'ostors  (HiuhI  at  nine  in  the 
nioniinp,  when  did  they  lireal<fast? 
\VliL'n  (lid  tlu'V  get  up?  They  were 
early  risers,  undoiilitodly;  nor  would 
tliey  liavo  aoi-oiiiplislied  sncli  sur- 
prising  exploits  Imd  they  not  bepiin 
to  work  and  tliiuk  with  the  iirst 
dawn  of  the  day.  For  some  ecn- 
tnries  tlie  dinuer-hour  was  fixed  at 
ten,  and  the  supper  at  six,  and  the 
later  hours  now  in  vopue  diil  not  pro- 
vail  in  England  until  after  the 
Restoration. 

Fashion  lias  improved  upon  the 
past,  however,  in  the  matter  of 
drinking.  There  are,  happily,  few 
three-lH)ttIe  men  now-a-days,  and  no 
gentleman  considers  it  a  necessary 
condition  of  his  hospitality  to  mako 
liis  guests  so  drunk  that  they  cannot 
walk  home.  The  beauty  and  use- 
fulness of  temperance  are  now  very 
generally  recogm'zed.  Society  would 
be  scandalized  if  the  groat  Whig 
leader  or  the  accomplished  Conser- 
vative guerilla-chief  rolled  into  the 
Ilonse  of  Commons  '  flustered  with 
wine' — seething,  like  Pitt  and  Fox, 
with  a  couple  of  bottles  of  port. 
Ilard  drinking  is  no  longer  one  of 
our  national  vices,  as  it  remained 
from  our  early  wars  in  the  Nether- 
lands until  the  conclusion  of  our 
Into  war  with  France.  Fashion,  in- 
fluenced by  good  sense,  has  waved 
her  wand,  and  the  swine  have 
ceased  to  wallow  'in  Epicurus'  sty.' 

A  treatise  might  Ix)  written  upon 
onr  ancient  drinking  customs.  What 
wine-l)ibbers  and  lieer-liiblx^rs  were 
the  Elizalxithan  swash-bucklers,  and 
the  iStuart  cavaliers !  No  tliin  pota- 
tions; no  half-filled  cups  for  them! 
In  those  days  he  was  nobody  that 
could  not  'drink  superoragulum;' 
'  caroiise  the  liunter's  hoope ;'  or 
'  qnnfl  upso  freeze  crosso.'  The 
satirist  Niish  gives  a  curious  picture 
of  society  in  the  thirsty  Tudor  days. 
He  dclin<at<!S  eight  different  kinds 
ol  druukiirds,  and  each  must  have 
t)een  sulliciently  common  t^)  enable 
him  so  acciiratf  ly  Ut  detoct  and  de- 
FcrilK)  their  IminourR.  '  The  first,' 
he  says,  '  is  Ape-drunk,  and  he  ksaps 
nnd  f-ings,  and  hollows  and  dances 
for  the  iKavfiis;  the  second  is  Lynn- 
drunk,  and  he  flings  the  |K)t«  atxmt 
the  house,  breaks  the  glass  windows 


with  his  dagger,  and  is  npt  to 
quarrel  with  any  man  that  speaks  to 
him;  the  third  is  Swine-drunk, 
heavy,  lumpish,  and  sleepy,  and 
cries  for  a  little  more  drink,  and  a 
few  nioro  clothes;  the  fourth  is 
Sheep-drunk,  wise  in  his  own  con- 
ceit when  ho  cannot  bring  forth  a 
right  word  ;  the  fifth  is  I\Iaudl in- 
drunk,  when  a  fellow  will  weep  for 
kinflness  in  tho  midst  of  his  drink, 
and  kis.s  you,  saying,  "  By  God, 
captain,  I  lovo  thee ;  go  thy  ways, 
thou  dost  not  think  so  often  of  mo 
as  I  do  of  thee  :  I  would  (if  it 
pleased  God )  1  could  not  love  thee 
as  I  <lo ;"  and  then  ho  puts  his  finger 
in  his  eye  and  cries.  Tho  sixth  ia 
Martin-drunk,  when  a  man  is  drunk, 
and  drinks  himself  soter  ere  he  stir  ; 
the  seventli  is  Goat-drunk,  when  in 
his  drunkenness  he  had  no  mind  but 
on  lechery.  The  eighth  is  Fox- 
drunk,  when  he  is  crafty  drunk,  as 
many  of  tho  Dutchmen  bo,  which 
will  never  bargain  but  when  they 
are  drunk.  All  these  species,  and 
more,  I  have  seen  practised  in  one 
company  at  one  sitting ;  when  I  have 
been  permitted  to  remain  fiol)er 
amongst  them  only  to  note  their 
several  humours.' 

To  drink  sif/n  r-rafjuhnn,  that  is, 
on  tho  rail,  is  thus  explained  by 
Nash  :  '  After  a  man  has  turned  up 
tho  l>ottora  of  his  cup,  a  drop  was 
allowed  to  settle  on  the  thumi)-nail. 
If  more  than  a  drop  trickled  dfiwn, 
the  drinker  was  cx)mpelled  to  drink 
again  by  way  ol  penance  ' 

Provocatives  of  drink  were  freely 
relished  by  our  roysteri  ;g,  hard- 
drinking  cavaliers.  Th.'se  were 
called  '  shoeing-horns,'  '  whetters,' 
'  flrawers-on,'  nnd  '  puUers-on.' 
Blassinger  puts  forth  a  curious  list, 
whoso  peru.sal  will  induce  the  reader 
to  bo  thankful  for  Fashion's 
changes: — 

'  I  nslicr 
.Such  an  unoxpoctod  dainty  l>it  for  breakfuat 
A*  n'vpf  yd  I  oxik'il ;  'ii<  rmi  IxitnrRo, 
Kriid  fr(^B^  p<)Uii(i«-»  marrowM,  o.ivnnr, 
Cirps'  ti)ti(fui»,  llip  pilli  ol  on  Kiigli»li  chine  of 

Ix.l. 
Nor  our  llnllan,  dclicntn  wild  muRhrooms, 
And  yol  a  drnwer  on  ton ;  and  it  you  show  not 
An  .ifip<tlt<-,  and  a  rtrnnp  oiip,  I'll  not  «iy 
To  cat  tl,  Init  d<-vour  it,  wlihoiit  grncr  too, 
(For  11  will  not  Ktay  a  prcfuc*-).  '  nni  »liam'd. 
And  all  my  pait  provocatives  will  he  Joor'd  at.* 


Cariosities  of  Fashion. 


339 


Ben  Jonson  affords  us  some 
glimpses  of  the  drinking  habits 
common  to  all  clashes.  In  thecomedy 
of  '  Bartholomew  Fair '  he  makes 
Overdo  say :  '  Look  int<j  any  angle 
of  the  town,  the  Streights,  or  the 
Bermudas,  where  the  quarrelling 
lesson  is  read,  and  how  do  they  en- 
tertain the  time,  bat  with  bottle-ale 
and  tobacco  ?  The  lecturer  is  o'  one 
side,  and  his  pupils  o'  the  other; 
but  the  seconds  are  still  bottle-ale 
and  tobacco,  for  which  the  lecturer 
reads,  and  the  novices  pay.  Thirty 
pound  a  week  in  bottle  ale !  forty  in 
tobacco !  and  ten  more  in  ale  again  ! 
Then  for  a  suit  to  drink  in,  so  much, 
and,  that  being  slaver'd,  so  much 
for  another  suit,  and  then  a  third 
suit,  and  a  fourth  suit!  and  still  the 
bottle-ale  slavereth,  and  the  tobacco 
stinketh.' 

After  the  Restoration  England  for 
a  time  abandoned  herself  to  a  na- 
tional saturnalia,  and  men  drank 
deeply,  from  the  king  to  the  lowest 
hind.  The  novels  of  Fielding  and 
Smollett  are  full  of  pictures  of  wild 
debauchery  and  drunken  extrava- 
gance. It  was  the  same  with  the 
next  generation ;  with  the  genera- 
tion that  looked  upon  George,  Prince 
Eegent,  as  the  tirst  gentleman  in 
Europe;  shameless  profligacy  and 
mad  drunkenness  were  the  reproach 
of  every  class.  A  three-bottle  man 
was  then  a  King  in  Israel !  States- 
men drank  deep  at  their  political 
councils ;  soldiers  drank  deep  in 
the  mess-room ;  ladies  drank  in 
their  boudoirs ;  gentlemen  at  their 
clubs  and  their  dining-tables !  The 
criminal  on  his  way  to  Tyburn 
stopped  to  drink  a  parting  glass. 
Hogarth,  in  his  wonderful  pictures, 
has  held  the  mirror  up  to  society  ; 
in  his  '  Gin  Lane '  and  '  Beer  Court,' 
as  in  his  '  Marriage  a  la  Mode,'  has 
shown  how  general  was  the  shame, 
how  terrible  the  curse!  Thank 
Heaven!  it  is  not  'the  fashion,'  in 
this  present  year  of  grace,  to  bemuse 
one's  self  with  drink.  We  love  the 
cheerful  'glass,'  but  eschew  the 
'punchbowl'  and  the  'bottle.' 

Hitherto  we  have  dealt  with  Eng- 
lish fashions  chiefly.  Before  we  quit 
the  subject,  it  will  be  as  well  to 
glance  at  the  customary  food  of 
other  nations.    We  shall  find  that 


man  exercises  his  gastronomical 
powers  upon  an  astonishing  variety 
of  subjects.  Not  many  of  these 
should  we  be  solicitous  for  Fashion 
to  render  popular  in  the  British 
isles,  notwithstanding  the  praise- 
worthy exertions  and  generous  sacri- 
fices of  the  members  of  the  Acclima- 
tization Society. 

Let  us  suppose  that  some  philan- 
thropic gourmands— some  adven- 
turous Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson 
— are  going  on  a  tour  of  culinary 
discovery.  First,  then,  they  may 
dine  with  the  Esquimaux  in  a  field 
of  ice,  and  be  treated  to  tallow 
candles  as  a  particularly  delicious 
dish,  with  a  slice  of  seal  by  way  of 
something  solid.  Or  they  will  find 
their  plates  loaded  with  the  liver  of 
the  walrus — which,  by  the  way,  an 
American  savant  has  commended  in 
enthusiastic  terms.  They  may  vary 
their  dinner  by  helping  themselves 
to  a  lump  of  whale-meat,  red  and 
coarse  and  rancid,  but  very  tooth- 
some to  an  Esquimaux  notwith- 
standing 1 

If  they  sat  down  at  a  Green- 
lander's  table,  they  would  find  it 
loaded  with,  or,  to  use  the  fashion- 
able expression,  '  groaning  under '  a 
dish  of  'half-putrid  whale's  tail,' 
which  has  been  lauded  as  a  savoury 
matter,  not  dissimilar  in  flavour  to 
cream  cheese !  Walrus'  tongue  is 
also  a  dainty,  and  the  liver  of  por- 
poise makes  a  Greenlander's  mouth 
water.  They  may  finish  their  repast 
with  a  slice  of  reindeer  or  a  roasted 
rat,  and  drink  to  their  host's  health 
in  a  bumper  of  train  oil. 

If  their  lastidious  taste  will  not 
allow  them  to  rest  content  with 
these  varieties  of  Arctic  fare,  they 
may  go  further  and  fare  worse.  In 
South  America,  for  instance,  Fashion 
recognises  a  notable  ^^i/f/if  in  the 
tongue  of  the  sea-lion.  'We  cut 
off,'  says  a  curious  traveller,  'the 
tip  of  the  tongue  hanging  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  sea-lion  just  killed. 
About  sixteen  or  eighteen  of  us  ate 
each  a  pretty  large  piece,  and  weal! 
thought  it  eo  good  that  we  re- 
gretted that  we  could  not  eat  more 
of  it.'  We  remember  to  have  read 
in  an  American  magazine  that,  in 
Honduras,  the  tail  of  the  manatu,  or 
sea-cow,  is  a  staple  dish  for  the 

Z  3 


340 


Curiosities  of  Fashion. 


table,  thonph  new  settlors  cannot  at 
first  ovircoiuo  its  ptrikiiip  resem- 
blance to  man.  Tlio  ftiiiiilo  has 
bauils.and  holds  its  youii;,'  up  to  its 
breast  ]irecisely  as  a  Imiuan  mother 
wouM.  Wo  fear,  therefore,  that 
manatu  would  Ik)  objected  to  by 
Erown,  Jones,  and  Robinson. 

Let  tiiem  visit  China,  then,  where 
fi\*hionan<l  the  c(X)kR  have  invented 
8ome  extraordinary  dishes.  Among 
these  a  foremost  place  must  Ihj  given 
to  soup  compounded  from  sharks' 
fins  so  that  they  import  every  yeai* 
from  India  twelve  to  fifteen  tliou- 
Band  huudreilweight  of  them.  OtT 
Kurrai'hee,  near  Bombay,  about 
forty  thousand  sharks  are  annually 
oflered  up  to  John  Chinaman's 
eccentric  appetite.  Then  the  rats! 
Why,  game  is  not  half  so  religiously 
preserved  in  England,  nor  is  venison 
nearly  so  much  esteemed.  Birds' 
nests,  too,  supply  the  materials  of  a 
very  fashionable  soup.  Those  made 
use  of  are  the  nests  of  the  Jlirnndo 
esctdtjitd.  The  gathering  of  these 
nests,  which  are  procured  from  caves 
on  the  southerly  seacoast  of  Java, 
takes  place  three  times  in  a  year— 
in  the  end  of  April,  the  midillo  of 
August,  and  in  Deceml)er.  '  They 
are  composed  of  a  mucilaginous 
substance,  but  as  yet  they  have 
never  Ijeen  analysed  with  sullicieut 
accuracy  to  show  the  constituents. 
Externally,  they  r&«emblo  ill-con- 
cocted, tibrous  isinglass,  and  are  of 
a  white  colour,  inclining  to  red. 
Their  thickness  is  little  more  than 
that  of  a  silver  spoon,  and  the 
weight  from  a  quarter  to  half  an 
ounce.  When  dry  they  are  brittle 
and  wrinkled;  the  size  is  nearly 
that  of  a  goo.'ie's  egg.  Those  that 
are  dry,  white,  and  clean,  are  the 
mo>t  valuable.  Th.-y  are  packed  in 
bundles,  with  si)lit  rattans  run 
♦  h  rough  to  preserve  the  shape. 
TIkj^c  procured  after  the  young  are 
fledged,  are  not  saleable  in  China. 
.  .  .  After  the  nests  ar«  obtained, 
they  arc  separated  from  feathers  and 
dirt,  are  carefully  dried  and  jiacked, 
and  are  then  tit  for  the  uiarket.  The 
Chinese,  who  are  the  only  people 
that  purcha.so  them  for  their  own 
use,  t)ring  them  in  junks  to  this 
market,  where  they  command  ex- 
travagant prices ;  the  best,  or  white 


kind,  often  being  worth  fonr  thon- 
sand  dollars  per  j)icul  (a  Chinese 
weight,  equal  to  133', lb.  avoirdu- 
poi.se\  which  is  nearly  twice  their 
weight  in  silver.  The  middling 
kind  is  worth  from  twelve  to 
eighteen  hundred,  and  the  worst,  or 
tliose  jirocured  after  fledging,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred 
dollars  per  picul.  The  labour  Ik)- 
stowed  to  render  the  birds'  nest  fit 
for  table  is  enormous;  every  feather, 
stick,  or  impurity  of  any  kind  is 
carefully  removed  ;  and  then,  after 
undergoing  many  wa.sliings  and 
preparations,  it  is  made  into  a  soft, 
delicious  jelly.' 

John  Chinaman  has  a  poicJiaut 
for  dogs,  and  fattens  them  as  the 
Berkshire  farmer  fattens  ]iigs.  This 
predilecfi(m  is  also  shared  by  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Zanzibar, 
in  Africa,  the  aristocracy  of  tho 
Sandwich  Islands,  and  "the  lialf- 
mannisli,  half- brutish  aborigines  of 
Australia.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Ro- 
binson— in  Canton — may  go  to  the 
butcher's  shop,  and  order  'a  fine  leg 
of  young  dog,'  just  as  i\Irs.  Tomkins 
orders  her  'leg  of  lamb'  at  lier 
butcher's  in  Camberwell.  A  tra- 
veller who  lias  visited  the  Sandwich 
Islands  asserts  that,  at  a  house  or 
hut  where  on  one  occasion  ho  dined, 
near  every  place  at  table  was  a 
plump  young  dog;  and  its  flesh 
was  so  much  relished  by  his  lil)eral 
palate,  that  ho  speaks  of  it  as  com- 
bining tho  peculiar  excellences  of 
lamb  and  pork.  These  Sandwich 
dogs  are  fed  with  peculiar  nicety,  and 
are  considered  fit  for  market  when 
two  years  old.  The  mode  in  which 
they  are  cooked  is  somewhat  pecu- 
liar. A  hole  is  dug  in  tho  ground 
large  enough  to  contain  the  puppy. 
A  good  fire  is  built  up  in  this  hole, 
and  largo  stones  cast  into  it  to  re- 
main until  red  hot.  You  then  pilo 
these  red-hot  stones  al)out  the  sides 
and  bottom,  throw  in  leaves  of 
odorous  plants,  and  lay  the  dog, 
well  cleaned  and  carefully  i)repared, 
U]ion  tho  glowing  stones.  More 
leaves,  more  stones,  and,  finally, 
some  earth  are  heaped  upon  tho 
smoking  dainty,  until  the  oven  be- 
comes, as  it  Were,  hermetically 
sealed.  The  meat,  when  done,  is 
full  of  delicious  juices,  and  worthy 


Curiosities  of  Fashion. 


341 


of  a  place  at  the  Lord  Mayor "s  table 
'  on  the  9th  of  November. 

Fashion,  in  Siam,  prescribes  a 
curry  of  ants'  eggs  as  necessary  at 
every  well-ordered  banquet.  They 
are  not  larger  —  the  eggs  —  than 
grains  of  pc|)|)er,  and  to  an  unac- 
customed palate  have  no  particular 
flavour.  Besides  being  curried,  they 
are  brought  to  table  rolled  in  green 
leaves,  mingled  with  shreds  or  very 
fine  slices  of  fat  pork. 

The  Mexicans,  a  people  dear  to 
Napoleon  III.,  make  a  species  of 
bread  of  the  eggs  of  insects ;  hemip- 
terous  insects  which  frequent  the 
fresh  waters  of  the  Mexican  lagunes. 
The  natives  cultivate,  in  the  lagune 
of  Chalco,  a  sort  of  carex  called 
toute,  on  which  the  insects  deposit 
their  eggs  very  freely.  This  carex 
is  made  into  bundles,  which  are  re- 
moved to  the  Lake  Texcuco,  and 
floated  in  the  water  until  covered 
with  eggs.  The  bundles  are  then 
taken  up,  dried,  and  beaten  over  a 
large  cloth.  The  eggs  being  thus 
disengaged,  are  cleaned,  sifted,  and 
pounded  into  flour. 

Penguins'  eggs,  cormorants'  eggs, 
gulls'  eggs,  albatrosses'  eggs,  turtles' 
eggs— all  are  made  subservient  to 
man's  culinary  experiments.  Turtles' 
eggs  are  of  the  same  size  as  pigeons' 
eggs.  The  mother  turtle  deposits 
them  at  night — about  one  hundredjat 
a  time — in  the  dry  sand,  and  leaves 
them  to  be  hatched  by  the  genial  sun. 
The  Indian  tribes  who  dwell  upon 
the  palmy  banks  of  the  Orinoco, 
procure  from  them  a  sweet  and 
limpid  oil,  which  is  their  substitute 
for  butter.  Lizards'  eggs  are  re- 
garded as  a  honne  bouche  in  some  of 
the  South  Sea  Islands :  and  the  eggs 
of  the  guana,  a  species  of  lizard,  are 
much  favoured  by  West  Indians. 
Alligators'  eggs,  too,  are  eaten  in 
the  Antilles,  and  resemble  hen's 
eggs,  it  is  said,  in  size  and  shape. 
Infinite  is  the  variety  of  edibles  dis- 
covered by  necessity,  and  sanctioned 
by  fashion! 

An  attempt  was  made,  a  few 
years  ago,  to  introduce  into  France 
the  practice  of  '  hippophagy,'  but 
Fashion  did  not  take  kindly  to  horse- 
flesh. M.  Isidore  St.  Hilaire,  how- 
ever, grew  enthusiastic  in  his  advo- 
cacy of   the  new  viand.    '  Horse- 


flesh,' he  exclaimed, '  has  long  been 
regarded  as  of  a  sweetish  disa- 
greeable taste,  very  tough,  and  not 
to  be  eaten  without  difhculty.  But 
so  many  different  facts  are  opposed 
to  this  prejudice,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  perceive  the  slightnesa 
of  its  foundation.  The  free  or  wild 
horse  is  hunted  as  game  in  all  parts 
of  the  world  where  it  exists— Asia, 
Africa,  and  America — and,  perhaps, 
even  now,  in  Europe.  The  domestic 
horse  itself  is  made  use  of  as  ali- 
mentary as  well  as  auxiliary— in 
some  cases  altogether  alimentary — 
in  Africa,  America,  Asia,  and  in 
some  parts  of  Europe. 

*  Its  flesh  is  relished  by  people 
the  most  diflerent  in  their  manner  of 
life,  and  of  races  the  most  diverse, 
negro,  IMongol,  IMalay,  American, 
Caucasian.  It  was  much  esteemed 
up  to  the  eighth  cefitury  among  the 
ancestors  of  some  of  the  greatest 
nations  of  Western  Europe,  who 
had  it  in  general  use,  and  gave  it 
up  with  regret.  Soldiers  to  whom 
it  has  been  served  out,  and  people 
in  towns  who  have  purchased  it  in 
markets,  have  frequently  taken  it 
for  beef  Still  more  often,  and  in- 
deed habitually,  it  has  been  sold  in 
restaurants,  even  in  the  best,  as 
venison  (!),  and  without  the  cus- 
tomers ever  suspecting  the  fraud  or 
complaining  of  it.'  Let  our  readers 
take  warning  by  this  revelation,  and 
never  call  for  venison  at  a  Parisian 
restaurant. 

Insects,  in  many  parts  of  the 
world,  supply  esteemed  dishes. 
Thus,  locusts  are  eaten  by  several 
tribes  of  North  American  Indians; 
the  Bushmen  of  Africa  indulge  in 
roasted  spiders;  maggots  tickle  the 
palates  of  the  Australian  aborigines ; 
and  the  Chinese  feast  upon  the 
chrysalis  of  the  silkworm. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Philippines 
indulge  in  frogs  as  a  peculiarly 
edible  delicacy.  After  the  rains, 
says  a  traveller,  they  are  taken  from 
the  ditch  that  encompasses  the  walls 
of  Manilla,  in  great  numbers,  for 
they  are  then  fat,  in  good  condition 
for  eating,  and  make  an  admirable 
curry.  The  French  are  still  a  frog- 
eating  people.  Mr.  Frank  Buck- 
land,  in  his  amusing  '  Curiosities  of 
Natural  History,'  observes : — 


342 


Curiosities  of  Fashion. 


'  III  Franco,  fmp^s  aro  consideriHl 
n  luxury,  iis  any  Inin  rirmif  ordering 
a  dish  of  tht'iu  at  tho  Trois  Frores, 
at  Paris,  may,  l>y  the  lonj;  l»rioo, 
6j)0C(lily  ascertain.  Not  wishing  to 
try  such  an  txpensivo  expuriniont 
in  pastrouoniy,  I  went  to  tlio  h\rgo 
market  in  the  Fauhoiirg  St.  Ger- 
main, and  inquired  for  frogs.  I  was 
referred  to  a  stately-looking  daiuo 
at  ft  fish- stall,  who  produced  a  box 
nearly  full  of  them,  huddling  and 
crawling  alwut,  and  occasionally 
croaking  as  though  awaro  of  tho 
fato  to  which  thoy  were  destined. 
Tho  price  tixed  was  two  a  penny, 
and  having  ordered  a  dish  to  ho 
prepared,  tho  Uamo  do  la  Hallo 
dived  her  hand  in  among  tlioui,  and 
having  secured  her  victim  by  tho 
hind  legs,  she  severed  him  in  twain 
with  a  sharp  knife;  tho  legs,  minus 
skin,  still  struggling,  were  placed 
(m  a  dish;  and  the  head,  with  the 
fore-legs  atlixed,  retained  life  and 
motion,  and  performed  such  mo- 
tions that  tho  operation  becauio 
painful  to  look  at.  These  legs  were 
afterwards  cooked  at  tho  restaura- 
teur's, being  served  up  fried  in 
bread-crumbs,  as  larks  are  in  Eng- 
lanil ;  and  most  excellent  eating 
they  were,  tasting  more  like  tho 
delicate  tlesh  of  tho  rabbit  than 
anything    else  I  can  think  of.    I 


afterwards  tried  a  dish  of  tho 
common  English  frog,  but  his  flesh 
is  not  so  white  nor  so  tender  as  that 
of  his  French  brother.' 

The  vagaries  of  fashion  have  not 
as  yet  introduced  frogs  into  our 
English  bills  of  faro,  and,  as  far  as 
our  own  taste  is  concerned,  wo 
trust  no  such  innovation  will  bo 
attemi)ted.  JUit  if  ever  fmgs  should 
tigure  on  our  tables,  it  is  some  con- 
solation to  reflect  that  onr  cooks 
will  prevent  them  from  tasting  like 
frogs, — they  will  so  spice,  and 
flavour,  and  combine,  and  dilute 
tho  dish.  As  Sam  Slick  says, — 
'  Veal  to  bo  good,  must  look  like 
anything  else  but  veal.  You  mustn't 
Iqiow  it  when  you  see  it,  or  it's 
vulgar  ;  mutton  must  be  incog.,  too ; 
beef  must  have  a  mask  on ;  any 
thin'  that  looks  f^olid,  take  a  spoon 
to;  any  thin'  that  looks  light,  cut 
withaknifo;  if  a  thing  UK)kfi  like 
fish,  you  take  your  oath  it  is  flesh; 
and  if  it  seems  real  flesh,  it's  only 
disguised,  for  it's  sure  to  l>o  fish  ; 
nothiu'  must  lie  nateral— natur  is 
out  of  fashion  here.  This  is  a  manu- 
facturin'  country;  everything  is 
done  by  machinery,  and  f/mf  that 
aint,  must  Ik)  made  to  look  like  it; 
and  I  must  say,  the  dinner  ma- 
chinery is  perfect.' 


I'r'pin  a  Photofjrapli  liy  .lulin  un<l  ClinrloH  Walkinx.] 

THE    RIGHT   HON.    SIR  JAMES   P.    WILDE. 

nil,  .11  iM.i.  <n    I  III:  invoucK  rouKi. 


343 


SKETCHES  OF  THE  ENGLISH  BENCH  AND  BAR. 


IV. 

THE  JUDGE  OF  TUE  DIVORCE  COURT. 


^pHE  ladies  would  never  forgive 
JL  us  if  we  were  to  forget  Sir 
James  Wilde,  the  judge  of  the 
Divorce  Court.  And  perliaps  we 
could  scarcely  begin  our  sketch  of 
him  better  than  by  giving  a  little 
story  of  him,  told  by  a  lady;  and 
which  is  in  itself  a  very  good  sketch 
of  his  character  and  manners.  A  lady 
— the  wife  of  a  Queen's  Counsel  and  a 
Member  of  Parliament — (who  told 
the  writer  the  story)  met  at  dinner  a 
gentleman  whose  name  she  did  not 
hai^pen  to  hear  and  whom  she  did 
not  know.  She  sat  next  to  him,  and 
found  him  a  delightful  companion. 
He  was  young  looking,  and  hardly 
seemed  one  who  could  be  called  even 
middle-aged.  He  had  fine  dark  eyes 
— good,  regular  features — a  keen, 
yet  kindly  expression  of  countenance; 
spoke  in  a  quiet,  agreeable  tone  of 
voice — was  rather  lively  in  conver- 
sation— was  evidently  accustomed 
to  society,  had  rather  the  tone  and 
aspect  of  a  man  of  fashion,  and  spoke 
freely  on  lighter  topics,  such  as 
ladies  are  likely  to  be  familiar  with — 
the  latest  novel  or  the  last  new  opera. 
'  How  did  you  like  your  companion, 
my  dear?'  asked  her  husband, 
later  in  the  evening.  *  Oh !  he  is 
delightful — who  is  he  ?'  '  He  is  Sir 
James  Wilde,'  answered  the  gentle- 
man. 'What!'  cried  she,  'the 
judge  of  the  Divorce  Court !  Well, 
my  dear,  I  had  no  idea  he  tvas  a 
lawyer r  The  fact  is,  he  was  so 
pleasant  and  agreeable  a  man,  so  at 
home  among  the  lighter  topics  of 
the  day,  and  with  so  much  the  tone 
and  air  of  a  man  of  fashion,  that 
she  could  not  imagine  him  to  be 
even  a  lawyer,  still  less  a  judge,  and 
judge  of  that  court  which,  above  all 
others,  appears  so  fearful  and  so 
formidable  to  the  female  mind. 

From  this  it  will  be  manifest  that 
Sir  James  Wrlde  is,  as  he  ought  to 
be,  a  man  of  the  world ;  and  a  man 
of  sense  and  intel  ligence ;  and  a  man 
of  society,  not  less  than — perhaps 


we  might  say  more  than — he  is  a 
lawyer.  For  the  peculiar  nature  of 
his  judicial  duties  these  are  really 
more  important  qualities  than  mere 
knowledge  of  law.  As  a  lawyer  he 
is,  to  say  the  least,  respectable,  and 
fully  of  the  average  judicial 
standard  ;  while  in  ability  he  is  cer- 
tainly above  the  average.  There 
are  few  judges  on  the  Bench  more 
able  than  Sir  James  Wilde!  He  has 
not  some  of  Sir  Cresswell's  great 
qualities,  but  has  others  perhaps 
better.  He  may  not  be  so  good  a 
lawyer,  and  perhaps  not  quite  so 
quick,  so  clear-headed,  and  so  keen. 
But  he  is  shrewd  and  sensible 
enough— full  of  sense  and  intelli- 
gence, and  if  not  quite  so  clear  he  is 
not  quite  so  cold.  He  is  not  ice,  as 
Sir  Cresswell  was.  He  has  not  that 
cold,  calm  countenance,  that  seemed 
to  freeze  you  with  its  cool,  chilling 
glance  of  those  clear  blue  eyes. 
Su*  James  has  a  face  warmer  and 
more  alive  to  human  sympathies  and 
passion.  It  is  a  face  which  reveals 
feeling  as  well  as  sense,  shrewdness, 
and  intelligence.  It  is  not  so  cold 
and  so  hard  as  Sir  Cresswell's ;  there 
is  a  fulness  and  brightness  in  the 
fine,  dark  hazel  eyes,  quite  attrac- 
tive. 

The  voice,  too,  has  a  fine,  mellow, 
kindly  tone  in  it,  utterly  unlike  the 
thin,  clear,  cold,  hard  tones  of  Sir 
Cresswell.  You  would  say  at  once 
that  the  man  had  '  more  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  in  him.'  He  has 
not  been  soured,  as  Sir  Cresswell 
they  say  had  been,  in  early  life,  by 
disappointed  affection,  the  bitterness 
of  which  had  turned  to  cynicism. 
Sir  James,  on  the  contrary,  has  gone 
through  life,  socially  as  well  as 
professionally,  with  happiness. 
Marriage  has  made  his  fortune,  and 
matrimony  gives  him  fame.  He 
married  a  daughter  of  the  Earl  ot 
Radnor,  a  lady  of  the  great  Whig 
house  of  Bouverie ;  and  that  (with 
his  reputation  for  ability)  got  him 


344 


Sletchet  of  the  En<jlixh  BenrJi  ntifl  Bur. 


tlio  jndposliip  of  the  Divorce  Court ; 
ami  tlms  Imving  niivlo  his  own  ft)r- 
tuuo  (and,  lot  us  Impo,  Iier  happi- 
ness) by  a  pocxl  uiarriago,  he  ]iasses 
his  time  pleasantly  in  determining 
npon  tho  follies,  or  the  woes,  or  tho 
nuseries  of  those  who  have  not 
married  so  happily. 

As  a  judge  he  is  very  much 
liked.  He  is  calm  and  clear-headed, 
and  suftieimtly  quick  and  sensildo, 
whilf  ho  is  not  so  sharp  and  snap- 
pish as  Sir  Cresswell  was.  He  is  a 
I)erfect  gentleman  and  a  most 
amiable  and  agreeable  man.  He  is 
patient  and  attentive,  canch'd  and 
considerate,  and  if  lie  ever  errs,  it  is 
rather  on  the  side  of  lenity  and  for- 
l)earance-than  of  over  severity.  Ho 
i.s  disposed  to  take  as  lenient  a  view 
as  possible  of  matrimonial  naughti- 
nesses and  a  very  syni]>athising  view 
of  matrimonial  miseries.  In  a  man 
who  has  himself  married  happily 
this  is  natural  and  amiable.  Ho  luif, 
erred  ;  and  erred  seriously,  for  in- 
stance, as  most  men  believe,  in 
tiie  ca=o  of  Mrs.  Codriegton,  in 
taking  an  unfavourable  view  of  her 
case;  and  in  poor  Mrs.  Chetwyud's 
ea^e,  in  not  allowing  lier  to  have  her 
children.  But  however  he  may 
err,  you  see  that  lie  does  his  lx!st  to 
do  right;  and  there  is  so  much 
evident  anxiety  to  do  so,  that,  what- 
ever his  errors,  one  cannot  Ik' angry. 
Hcexpres.«es  himself  on  all  occitsions 
with  exquisite  i)ro|)riety:  his  diction 
is  admirable;  his  delivery  quiet  and 
una(Tecte<i,  but  with  much  sulKlued 
earnestness — sometimes  eloquence 
—a  great  contrast  to  the  coldness  of 
Sir  Cresswell.  If  ho  is  not  so  acute 
a  judge  as  Cresswell,  ho  is  one  far 
more  amiable,  and  when  he  is  a  few 
years  old(!r  he  will  be  fully  as  good 
and  as  great  a  judge,  ile  has  a 
larger  mind  than  Cresswell,  one  fiir 
more  comprehensive  and  philoso- 
phical. Ho  does  not  take  so  cold 
and  hard  a  view  of  human  life, 
especially  as  reganls  the  matrimo- 
nial relation;  but  for  that  very 
rea.son  there  is  renson  to  l)elievo 
that  h(!  will,  at  all  events,  when  hia 
mind  has  iK'Comeopeiied  and  niatured 
l)y  exjMrieiice,  take  a  sounder  view 
of  it  than  his  gre.it  |)red('ce-s.ir.  Sir 
Cresswell  hafl  I  ten  disappointed 
and  soured  in  early  life,  m  the  very 


matter  f>f  niarr  iago,  and  that  gave 
a  cynical  turn  to  liis  mind,  parti- 
cularly on  that  very  sutiject.  Ho 
lias  Ikx'U  happily  described  in  a 
poetical  portraiture,  in  tliese  lines : 

'  With  brain  as  doar  as  cryslal.  and  with  manner 
As  cold  and  chilling— Cresswell  seemed  to  stand 
In  Isolation  from  his  lellow  men.' 

Then  the  poet  asks — 

'  Wa-s  his  temper 
So  from   the  firbt.'    Nay;   but  Ins   life  was 

soured 
Hy  one  keen  dls;\ppoliitment  of  the  sonl, 
Which  turned  his  days  to  bitterness.' 

The  poet  proceeds  to  tell  the  story 
of  Sir  Cresswell's  blighted  hopes, 
and  he  tells  it  beautifully. 

'  The  Ftory 
Is  coiumonplaro  ;  but  not  less  true — of  love, 
And  pride  that  (ivormiistt-rod  that  RtroiiR  love. 
And  a  slclen  llit;ht,  and  then  a  desolate  hearth, 
And  an  ovcrwhi'lminp  sorrow  and  distrust ; 
And  so  bis  life  thenceforward  was  a  desert. 
Yet  let  his  name  be  honoured.    All  furKotlen 
That  sharp  sarcastic  tone  and  curl  of  lip. 
And  scornful  eye— that  seldom  smote  but  when 
Tcrt  lolly  called  them  forth;  lor  Truth  and 

Justice 
Arrayed  in  Ix-arnlng's  (trand  Imperial  robe, 
Were  ever  by  bi.<  side  upon  the  bench. 
Guiding  his  Judgment  when  he  spake  tl>el.iw.' 

Now  Sir  James  Wildo  has  all  his 
predecc.ssor's  judicial  excellencies 
and  gcMxl  quidilies,  except  the  great 
judicial  experience  which  Sir  Cress- 
well had  already  had  before  became 
to  tho  Divorce  Court;  and  except, 
also,  the  extraordinary  acuteness 
which  distinguished  him  ;  to  counter- 
balance which,  Sir  James  is  tree 
from  tho  one  great  delect  of  Sir 
Cresswell,  his  soured  and  cynical 
spirit;  and,  moreover,  as  ho  has 
greater  warmth  of  nature,  so  he  has 
greater  breadth  of  mind,  and,  as  we 
have  said,  in  a  few  years  he  will 
])robably  be  found  a.s  sound,  and 
perhaps  a  greater  judge  than 
Cresswell.  Ho  has  ha(t  nothing 
certainly  to  sour  his  nature.  Ilia 
own  happy  and  auspicious  marriage 
has  rather,  as  already  o))served, 
tended  tn  give  him  that  warm  sym- 
jiithy  with  the  matrimonial  relation 
wliich  tlie  judge  of  tln^  Divorce 
and  Matrimonial  Court  ought  surely 
to  possess.  Already  on  more  than 
one  point  his  o|)inioii  has  l)oen 
deemed  by  tho  profes^i()n  sounder 


Shetchea  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


3i5 


than  Sir  Cresswell's.  The  fact  is, 
Sir  Cresswell's  mind  though  acute 
was  narrow.  The  magnificent 
address  delivered  by  Sir  James 
Wilde  at  York  alone  would  suffice 
to  show  him  a  man  of  enlarged  and 
philosophical  mind.  Sir  Cresswell 
could  no  more  have  delivered  such 
an  address  than  he  could  have  fiown. 
And  very  lively  he  would  have 
sneered  at  the  man  who  delivered  it. 
His  mind  was  cramped  as  well  as 
soured  by  the  cold,  cynical  spirit 
which  possessed  it.  Were  he  alive 
he  probably  would  have  joined  with 
those  who  sneered  at  some  of  Sir 
James  Wilde's  judgments  as  '  weak ' 
and  '  sentimental/  because  he  be- 
trayed a  belief  in  the  possibility  of 
reconciliation  and  reunion  between 
married  couples  who  had  quarrelled. 
But  the  experience  of  future  years 
will  perhaps  prove  that  Sir  James 
was  right  after  all ;  and  the  proba- 
bility certainly  is  in  his  favour ;  for 
he  is  a  married  man,  and  has  actual 
experience  in  the  matrimonial  life, 
whereas  poor  Sir  Cresswell  never 
knew  it,  and  looked  at  it  only 
through  the  distorting  medium  of 
a  soured  and  disappointed  spirit. 
Sir  James  Wilde  is,  as  the  judge  of 
the  Divorce  Court  should  be,  a 
married  man :  and  a  man  happily 
married,  and  one  who  has  practical 
experience  of  matrimony.  Partly 
from  this  cause,  he  goes  far  more 
largely  into  society,  especially 
female  society,  than  a  judge  who  is 
unmarried  possibly  can;  and  he 
knows  infinitely  more  of  the  inner 
life  of  rriarried  people,  the  aspect  of 
domestic  life,  the  character  of  women, 
the  causes  which  make  or  mar  their 
happiness ;  the  sources  of  disagree- 
ment or  dislikes ;  the  trumpery 
causes  which  sometimes  lead  to 
dissension  and  separation ;  the 
tendency  of  former  affection  to  revive 
and  yearn  for  its  original  object. 
All  these,  and  a  hundred  other 
things.  Sir  James,  going  largely  into 
society  with  his  wife,  must  learn, 
and  hear,  and  observe;  of  which 
poor  Sir  Cresswell,  in  his  miserable 
isolation,  must  have  been  ignorant. 
Sir  Cresswell  knew  'the  world,'  no 
doubt,  in  a  certain  sense ;  but  it  was 
a  hard,  cold  world— the  world  which 
lawyers  see,  not  the  inner  world  of 


married  life,  and  the  sacred  circle  of 
home,  with  all  its  domestic  cares, 
and  joys,  and  duties.  To  all  this  ho 
was  a  stranger  ;  yet  for  a  judge  of 
the  Divorce  and  Matrimonial  Court, 
this  was  the  most  important  know- 
ledge of  all,  as  enabling  him  to 
enter  into  and  understand  the  dis- 
putes of  married  people  and  the 
chances  of  their  reunion. .  Happier 
than  his  predecessor.  Sir  James 
Wilde  has  this  knowledge  in  its 
fulness,  and  therefore  he  is,  we 
think,  a  better  judge  of  that  Court. 

He  admirably  upholds  the  decorum 
and  dignity  of  the  Court,  and  has  a 
perfect  control  over  the  Bar  there, 
and  this  without  anything  severe, 
snappish,  or  sarcastic;  but  simply 
as  himself  preserving  on  all  occa- 
sions a  perfect  air  of  self-possession, 
calm,  gentlemanly  good-breeding, 
and  a  quiet  dignity  of  tone  and 
manner,  which  commands  the  entire 
respect  of  the  Bar,  especially  as  it  is 
blended  with  the  most  thorough 
amiability  and  constant  courtesy. 
On  the  whole  Sir  James  Wilde  is  an 
admirable  judge  of  the  Court  over 
which  he  presides,  and  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  him  sitting  there. 

The  following  passage  may  be 
taken  as  a  good  specimen  of  Sir 
James  Wilde's  judicial  stjle,  his 
justness  of  thought,  his  purity  of 
diction,  and  his  felicity  of  expres- 
sion— 

'  The  shape  or  form  that  the 
petitioner's  misconduct  in  married 
life  may  take,  its  degree,  the  length 
of  its  duration,  its  incidents  of 
mitigation  or  of  aggravation,  its 
causes  and  effects— all  these  have, 
or  may  have,  a  bearing  on  the  peti- 
tioner's claim  to  relief,  and  yet  are 
capable  of  such  infinite  variety  and 
intensity  that  tbey  escape  a  distinct 
expression,  refuse  to  be  fixed  in  a 
positive  and  distinct  enactment. 
The  duty  of  weighing  these  matters 
has  therefore  been  cast  upon  the 
Court ;  and  when  the  cases  arising 
have  been  sufficiently  numerous  to 
unfold  any  rules  of  general  applica- 
tions, this  Court  may  be  enabled  to 
guide  itself  and  others,  in  these  more 
narrow  limits,  by  further  definition. 
But  until  then  the  same  reasons 
which  have  served  to  make  the  legis- 
lature express  itself  with  latitude. 


346 


SJcetches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


ought  to  niako  the  Court  cautious 
in  restricting  itself  h\  prtrtikiit.' 

Or,  again,  take  the  following 
—a  masttriy  (ktinition  of  tlio  term 
'desertion,'  lus  npi)lie(l  to  the  matri- 
monial relation.  Wo  Uiako  no 
apology  for  introducing  tlieso  ex- 
tracts, liecauso  they  aro  not  only 
happy  illustrations  of  judicial  stylo, 
but  also  on  a  suhject  of  great  interest 
to  our  fair  readers. 

'  It  is  not  ea.sy  to  define  "  descr- 
tiou."  To  def^ert  is  to  "  forsake"'  or 
"abandon."  Jkit  what  degree  or  ex- 
tent of  withdrawal  from  the  wife's 
society  con.stitutes  a  forsaking  or 
abandoning  her?  This  is  easily 
answered  in  some  cases,  not  so  easily 
in  others ;  for  the  degree  of  inter- 
course which  married  persons  are 
able  to  maintain  with  each  other  is 
various.  It  depends  on  their  walk 
in  life,  and  is  not  a  little  at  the 
mercy  of  external  circumstances. 
The  position  of  some,  and,  indeed, 
the  large  majority,  admits  of  that 
intimate  cohabitation  which  com- 
jiletely  fulfils  the  ends  of  matrimony, 
dliort  of  that,  all  degrees  of  matri- 
monial intercourse  present  them- 
selves in  the  world.  To  some,  it  is 
given  to  meet  only  at  intervals, 
though  of  frequent  occurrence.  It 
is  the  lot  of  others  to  bo  separated 
for  years,  or  to  meet  only  under 
great  restrictions.  The  fetters  im- 
posed by  the  profession  of  the  army 
and  navy,  the  re<iuirements  of  com- 
mercial enterprise,  and  the  call  to 
foreign  lands  which  so  frequently 
attend  all  branches  of  industrial  life, 
make  those  restrictions  often  inevi- 
table. But  perhaps  in  no  class  do 
they  fall  so  htavily  as  on  tho.se  who 
devote  themselves  to  domestic 
service  for  the  means  oflife.  And 
yd  matriiiioinj  is  lundc  for  all ;  and 
malriiitoiiiul  intcicoitrst;  must  accom- 
motldtc  itsilf  to  tltn  v,  i(jl,ti,'r  considc- 
rafiotis  (f  mutirid  lif:  From  these 
considerations  it  is  obvious  that  the 
test  of  finding  a  home  f(;r  the  wife, 
and  living  with  her,  is  not  uni- 
versally ajiplicable  in  jn-onouncing 
"desertion"  liy  the  husbaml.  Nor 
docs  any  other  criterion,  suitalile  to 
all  cases,  present  itself  to  the  mitid 
of  the  wife.  To  neglect  opjutrtunities 
of  ccmsorling  with  a  wife  is  not 
necessarily  to  desert  her.        Indif- 


ference, want  of  i)ropor  solicitude, 
illiberality,  denial  of  rea.sonablo 
means,  and  even  faithlessness,  is  not 
desertion.  Desertion  seems  jwiuted 
at  a  breaking  otY,  more  or  less  co;u- 
])letely,  of  tho  intercourse  which 
previously  existed.  Is  the  husband 
then  bound  to  avail  hini.self  of  all 
means  at  his  disj)osaI  for  increasing 
tho  intimacy  of  this  intercourse  on 
the  peril  of  Inking  pronounced  guilty 
of  desertion  ?  On  the  otiier  hand, 
is  he  free  from  that  peril  .so  long  as 
he  maintains  any  intercourse  at  all  ? 
The  former  proposition  is  easily 
solved  in  the  negative.  It  may  l>o 
doubted  whether  the  latter  ought 
not  be  answered  in  the  atiirmative. 
But  it  is  enough  for  the  deti.sion  of 
this  case.  So  long  as  a  husband 
treats  his  wife  as  a  wife,  by  main- 
taining such  degree  and  manner  of 
iutercour.so  as  might  naturally  bo 
expccteil  from  a  husband  of  his 
calling  and  means,  he  cannot  be  said 
to  have  deserted  her.' 

Nothing,  it  will  Ik;  seen,  could  bo 
more  sensible,  more  philosophical, 
or  more  true.  Our  readers  may 
easily  recognise  the  gooil  sense  of  a 
man  of  the  world,  tho  enlightened 
ideas  of  a  ])hilosophical  mind,  and 
the  calm  reliective  spirit  of  a  judi- 
cial temperament,  with  the  hajipiest, 
most  ])ointed,  and  most  exjuessivo 
judicial  .style.  One  more  illustra- 
tion for  the  .sake  of  our  fair  readers. 
It  was  in  a  very  painful  and  un- 
hapi)y  ca.sc  in  which  the  wife  had 
sinned,  but  sought  forgiveness  in 
such  a  humble  and  C(jntrite  sjiirit 
that  she  won  the  judge's  synijiathy,  i* 
though  she  failed  to  touch  the  heart 
of  her  husband. 

'The  Imrthen  of  the  husband's 
letters  seems  to  l)e  as  follows.  I 
still  love  you  and  long  fur  your 
love.  I  will  suiiuiiDU  you  to  rejoin 
me  on  one  condition — that  of  true 
religious  rei)entanco.  do  to  my 
sister  in  England;  she  will  help 
you  to  repent.  You  have  never 
loved  me,  and  are  ungrateful  for  my 
past  leniency.  Tho  tone  of  these 
letters  is  that  of  very  stern  re- 
proach mixed  with  much  religious 
exhortation  equally  stern.  Mero 
])enitcnce  will  not  suflico:  his  wife 
is  to  "al»hor  herself  in  dust  and 
ashes;"    she   is    to    undergo    deep 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


347 


humiliation  and  self-abasement  be- 
fore her  repentance  can  bo  real. 
But  there  is  a  strong  yearning  for 
her  atlection,  and  in  the  earlier  let- 
ters an  evident  wish  to  satisfy  him- 
self that  he  might  take  her  back 
with  safety.  On  the  side  of  the 
wife  the  letters  may  be  thus  epito- 
mized. "  I  will  not  pretend  to  an 
amount  of  religious  feeling  which  I 
do  not  entertain.  I  can  never  sym- 
pathise with  what  I  consider  the 
extreme  views  of  yourself  and  your 
sister  in  matters  of  religion.  Stiil 
I  am  truly  sorry  :  I  am  but  a  sinful, 
wicked  woman,  but  I  do  sincerely 
repent  of  past  misconduct;  pray 
take  me  back  to  live  with  you;  I 
feel  more  true  longing  for  your 
society  than  ever;  but  I  make  no 
pretences.  You  must  take  me,  if  at 
all,  as  a  wicked,  sinful  woman,  who 
will  try  hard  to  be  all  you  wish, 
and  who  earnestly  repents  conduct 
which  she  now  sees  in  its  true 
light."  Complete  submission,  abso- 
lute prostration  before  her  hus- 
band's will,  and  tender  entreaty  on 
one  side ;  reiterated  reproaches,  bit- 
ter words,  an  austere  and  uncom- 
promising censure  on  the  other, 
with  avast  amount  of  religious  allu- 
sion on  both  sides— these  are  the 
principal  features  of  this  most  dis- 
tressing correspondence.  It  comes 
to  a  cruel  end.  For  six  or  seven 
months  had  the  hope  of  being  re- 
ceived again  been  held  before  the 
eyes  of  the  wife.  The  husband 
wrote  letters  which,  interpreted  by 
himself,  actually  offered  her  the 
option  of  return  to  his  home.  She 
misunderstood  them,  and  waited  for 
a  more  sure  welcome.  Then  came 
the  final  blow  to  all  for  which  the 
wife  had  yearned — an  explicit  with- 
di-awal  of  all  that  had  been  held  out 
to  her.' 

Then,  after  a  masterly  analysis  of 
the  evidence,  leading  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  was  a  case  of  suspicion, 
not  of  conclusive  guilt,  the  judge 
proceeded  to  declare  the  husband's 
petition  dismissed,  and  concluded 
in  a  passage  which  was  made  the 
subject  of  much  severe  comment  at 
the  time,  and  is  as  good  a  specimen 
as  could  be  given  of  his  mental 
calibre  and  his  judicial  character. 

'  My  mind  comes  to  the  conclu- 


sion of  much  levity,  actual  miscon- 
duct, but  no  downright  guilt.  It 
is  impossible  not  to  feel  the  deepest 
interest  in  the  future  fate  of  this 
unhappy  couple.  If  the  petitioner 
is  disappointed  at  the  end  arrived 
at,  he  will  bear  in  mind  that,  while 
human  judgment  isahvajs  fallible, 
he  has  no  cause  to  quarrel  with  the 
means.  The  case  has  been  most 
carefjjly  sifted,  and  with  the  most 
earnest  attention  of  all  who  had  it 
in  hand.  And  the  thought  is  not 
without  some  solace  that  human 
ji;dgment,  impartially  applied,  has 
absolved  his  wife  and  confirmed  his 
own  early  conclusions.  Thus  forti- 
fied, he  may  safely  take  her  back  to 
his  home.  No  one  can  read  the 
entire  submission  and  pitiful  appeal 
of  his  wife  without  indulging  the 
conviction  that  the  future  will  not 
be  with  her  as  the  past.  She  owes 
all  to  his  generosity  and  forbear- 
ance ;  and  she  will  not  disgrace  that 
which  does  him  so  much  honour. 
May  it  be  so ;  and  should  the  day 
come  when  peace  and  mutual  con- 
fidence shall  be  established  between 
himself  and  the  mother  of  his  only 
child,  haply  he  may  not  regret  tliat 
it  has  not  been  permitted  to  this 
court  to  undo  the  most  solemn  and 
most  sacred  act  of  his  life.  Forsitan 
et  hcec  olim  meminisse  juvahit.' 

That  is,  in  plain  English,  in  that 
event  he  will  ever  look  back  with 
pleasure  to  the  result  of  proceed- 
ings which  at  the  time  were  so 
painful.  Those  who  censured  this 
celebrated  judgment  did  not  do  it 
justice,  and  forgot  that  the  gist  of  it 
was  that  the  husband  himself  had 
originally  been  disposed  to  look  over 
what  had  i^assed,  and  to  receive 
his  wife  back,  and  that  it  was  the 
influence  of  third  parties  which  had 
interposed  to  prevent  his  carrying 
out  this  resolve,  which  the  judge, 
after  careful  consideration,  con- 
sidered to  have  been  right.  And  as 
he  perhaps  charitably  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  there  had  been  no 
actual  guilt,  why  shoiild  the  hus- 
band not  take  her  back  ?  and  if  so, 
why  should  they  not,  hereafter, 
recal  the  result  of  these  painful 
proceedings  with  grateful  pleasure, 
seeing  that  it  had  restored  them  to 
each   other?      Those,    then,    who 


348 


Sletchcs  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


sneered  nt  the  judgiiicut  as  'scnti- 
nu'ntal'  vcvvl,  as  siicorors  usually 
are,  shnllow-iniiidoil  and  ignorant 
of  tlio  liuman  heart.  No  douht,  not 
a  senttnoe  of  tlio  jndj^'iuont  could 
have  bicii  delivered  liy  Sir  Cress- 
well;  and  it  proceeded  from  a  very 
different  mind  and  nature  ;  and  for 
that  very  reason  wc  have  quoted  it 
as  eminently  characteristic  of  his 
successor,  Sir  James  Wilde.  And 
unless  a  cold,  severe,  and  cynical 
nature  is  a  proof  of  infallible  wis- 
dom;  and  unless  humnn  judpments 
are  necessarily  to  be  less  merciful 
and  charitable  than  divine,  who 
shall  say  that  Sir  James  is  the  wor^e 
Judge  Ixjcause  ho  has  the  warmer 
sympathies  for  human  nature,  a 
lundlicr  feeling  for  its  faults,  a  truer 
Sense  of  its  mixed  character,  and 
therefore  a  more  enlarged  and  philo- 
soi)hical  view  of  its  real  character, 
than  a  colder  and  a  naiTower  mind 
would  adopt?  What  verdict  do  our 
readers  pronounce  upon  the  present 
judge  of  the  Divorce  Court?  Is  he 
guilty  of  too  much  lenity  because 
he  has  more  sympathy?  Is  he 
necessarily  weaker  than  his  prede- 
cessor, or  may  it  not  be  that  in  such 
matters  he  is  wiser?  If  Sir  Cress- 
well  was  the  colder  judge,  may  not 
Sir  James  Ixj  the  iKitter  ?  We  think 
our  fair  readers  will  decide  in  his 
favour. 


MR.  JUSTICE  WILLES. 

We  as.sociato  Mr.  Justice  Willes 
with  Sir  James  Wilde  because,  not 
long  ago,  when  there  was  a  rumour 
of  the  removal  of  Sir  James  to  the 
iwst  of  Chief  Baron  of  the  Kxche- 
quer,  it  was  also  rumoured  that  Mr. 
Justice  Willes  was  to  succeed  him 
in  the  Divorce  Court;  and  because 
he  alone,  of  all  the  common-law 
judges,  at  all  rtsembles  him  in  his 
judicial  clmractir, or  would  be  likely 
or  qualified  to  succeed  him,  which, 
indeed,  may  liavo  been  the  ground 
of  the  rumour  referred  to.  H(>  may 
fitly  enough  therefore  U-  assofiated 
with  Sir  James  Wilde,  and  his  fit- 
ness for  the  office  it  was  supposed 
he  was  to  fill  may  jK-rhaps  in  some 
degree  Ik;  estimated  from  our  sketch 
of  his  judicial  character. 


A  single  glance  at  the  counte- 
nance of  Mr.  Justice  Willes  will 
show  you  that  he  is  a  man  of  intel- 
lect, of  calm  and  ])hilosoi)hic  mind, 
and  of  great  study  and  learniiig. 
It  is  a  countenance  somewhat  of  the 
same  general  class  or  character  as 
that  of  Sir  James  Wilde;  a  regular 
oval  face,  tinely-cut  features,  rather 
inclining  to  be  sharj),  a  thoughtful, 
reflective  aspect,  a  look  at  first 
rather  of  quiet  reserve.  There  is 
this  difference,  however,  that  Sir 
James  Wilde  is  dark,  Mr.  Justice 
Willes  is  fair  and  light.  There  is 
some  resemblance,  too,  in  general 
manner  and  liemeanour — an  air  of 
quiet  self-posses.sion,an  aspect  calm, 
composed,  and  reflective;  an  in- 
clination to  Ix),  if  not  taciturn,  at 
all  events  sparing  of  words  among 
strangers,  and  to  speak  with  terse- 
ness and  neatness  of  expres.sion ; 
and  at  the  same  time  beneath  an 
exterior  of  rather  cold  reserve,  a 
great  capacity  for  the  enjoyment  of 
general  and  refined  society.  As  re- 
gards society,  however,  Sir  James 
Wilde  has  probably  gone  much  more 
into  society  than  Mr.  Justice  Willes, 
who  has  led  more  the  life  of  a  stu- 
dent. These  two  words,  society  and 
study,  mark  as  much  as  ])ossibfe  the 
great  difference  between  the  two 
men.  Sir  James  Wilde  is  more  a 
man  of  society,  Mr.  Justice  Willes 
rather  a  man  of  study.  The  latter 
has  read  far  more  than  the  other, 
the  former  has  seen  and  heard  much 
more.  The  one  is  more  an  adept  in 
learning,  the  other  in  real  life.  For 
this  rea.son,  probably,  Mr.  Justice 
Willes  might  not  make,  in  some  re- 
spects, so  good  a  judge  of  the  Divorce 
Court  as  Sir  James  Wilde,  not  having 
60  much  knowledge  of  life,  of  human 
nature,  and  of  tlie  world.  EacJi, 
however,  is  characterised  by  a  largo 
and  enlightened  mind  and  a  philo- 
sophic and  reflective  disposition. 
Perhaps  a  jihysiognomisf  wojild  say, 
looking  at  their  countenances,  that 
Sir  .fames  Willes  had  the  larger 
measure  of  intellect,  the  most  acute 
and  capacious  miu'l,  and  certainly 
it  has  been  most  enriched,  enlarged, 
and  expanded  by  acquired  learning. 
There  )>rolialily  never  was  a  judge 
who  more  rigidly  practi.'^ed  the  great 
gift  of  taciturnity  than  Sir  James 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


849 


Willes.  He  always  was  distin- 
guished for  it,  and  he  sits  in  a  court 
which  is  remarlvable  for  it.  There 
he  sits  by  the  side  of  the  grave  and 
solemn  Bylos ;  they  are  rare  listen- 
ers, and  f^eldom  interrupt ;  but  none 
is  so  taciturn  as  he  is ;  and  when  he 
speaks  it  is  sparingly  and  tersely, 
and  often  with  a  queer,  quaint 
poiutedness,  which  he  rather  affects. 
He  seems  to  pride  himself  upon  ex- 
pressing the  most  pointed  meaning 
in  the  shortest  possible  form  of 
words,  and,  if  possible,  in  a  single 
word,  which  he  often  succeeds  in 
doing.  Thus,  the  other  day,  a  young 
counsel  had  been  rather  copiously, 
dogmatically,  and  vehemently  urging 
a  certain  view.  When  he  had  ex- 
hausted himself,  the  learned  judge 
simply  said  in  his  quiet  tone,  '  I 
concur.'  This  is  the  formula  used 
by  judges  to  express  their  concur- 
rence with  each  other,  and  it  was 
adopted  evidently  to  convey,  in  a 
delicate  manner,  a  slight  touch  of 
satire  on  the  dogmatic  tone  taken 
by  the  young  counsel,  who  at  once 
saw  and  enjoyed  the  satire. 

On  another  occasion,  when  a  coun- 
sel, in  tbe  heat  of  argument,  made 
a  statement  obviously  exaggerated, 
'Ehetoric,'  said  the  learned  judge, 
quietly,  '  rhetoric'  It  was  enough. 
The  learned  judge  is  of  a  kindly  dis- 
position and  a  thorough  gentleman, 
and  when  he  has  to  convey  a  rebuke, 
he  does  it  in  some  delicate  and  refined 
way  like  this.  Thus  once  on  cir- 
cuit a  young  barrister,  counsel  for 
the  prosecution  in  a  criminal  case, 
who  was  breaking  down,  feeling 
rather  in  a  hobble,  wished  to  get  out 
of  the  difficulty  by  putting  it  on  the 
judge,  and  said  to  him, '  I  will  throw 
myself  upon  your  lordship's  hands.' 

'  Mr.  ,'  said  the  learned  judge, 

quietly, '  I  decline  the  burden.'  On 
another  similar  occasion  the  counsel 
asked  if  he  should  take  such  and 
.such  a  course ;  to  which  the  learned 
judge  dryly  replied,  'No  one  is 
allowed  to  ask  qviestions  of  the 
judge  except  her  Majesty  and  the 
House  of  Lords.'  On  some  occa- 
sions the  scholastic,  almost  pedantic, 
turn  of  Sir  James  Willes' mind  leads 
him,  when  he  desires  to  be  em- 
phatic, into  queer  and  quaint  ex- 
pressions, which  sometimes  appear 


incongruous  or  have  a  humorous 
sound.  Thus  once  in  delivering  an 
elaborate  judgment,  'I  hope,'  he 
said,  with  emphasis,  yet  with  his 
usual  hesitating  manner — '  I  hope 
that  on  all  occasions  I  shall  be 
valiant  in  upholding  the  powers  of 
the  court.'  On  another  occasion, 
when  a  dictum  obviously  wrong  was 
quoted  from  a  Nisi  Prius  report,  '  I 
am  sure,'  he  said, '  the  learned  judge 
never  said  what  the  reporter  has 
been'  (hesitating  as  if  for  choice  of 
an  expressive  phrase)  ' muliynant 
enough  to  put  into  his  mouth.' 
There  is  this  dry,  scholastic  manner 
about  the  learned  judge  which  some- 
times has  the  asjject  of  pedantry, 
but  is  not  so,  and  is  only  the  result 
of  much  study.  It  is  impossible  to 
imagine  a  greater  or  more  striking 
contrast  than  between  Mr.  Justice 
Willes  and  Mr.  Justice  Blackburn, 
or  Mr.  Baron  Martin.  He  so  quiet, 
so  taciturn,  so  sparing  of  speech, 
and  so  studied  in  his  words,  they  so 
voluble,  so  pliant,  so  vehement ;  he 
so  fond  of  reflection,  they  of  discus- 
sion and  disputation.  His  whole 
judicial  manner  and  character  more 
nearly  resembles  those  of  Sir  James 
Wilde  than  those  of  any  other  judge 
on  the  Bench ;  but  his  quauitnesses 
of  expression  are  so  peculiar  to 
him  that  there  is  not  another  judge 
on  the  Bench  who  could  possibly 
have  uttered  them,  or  to  whom 
they  would  ever  be  ascribed.  There 
is  sometlaing  extremely  characteris- 
tic in  those  idiomatic  phrases  made 
use  of  by  a  man,  especially  if  he  be 
one  of  strong  mind  or  peculiar  cha- 
racter. They  mark  the  man's  men- 
tal traits  or  peculiarities  as  strikingly 
as  the  features  of  his  physiognomy, 
and  often  much  more  so.  They 
embody  in  a  single  word  or  phrase 
the  whole  idiosyncrasy  of  the  man, 
and  hit  him  off,  so  to  speak,  as  a 
photcgraph  does,  in  an  instant. 

There  is  something  in  the  utter- 
ance and  manner  of  Mr.  Justice 
Willes  exactly  what  you  would 
imagine  in  a  man  not  physically 
strong,  with  a  voice  somewhat  weak 
and  a  constitution  impaired  by  ex- 
cessive study  and  enormous  prac- 
tice and  severe  intellectual  labour ; 
with  a  spirit  greater  than  his 
strength ;  with  a  nature  exceedingly 


nso 


Skeiche*  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar, 


soneitive ;  with  n  miml  scholastic 
and  all  but  po<li\ntio  in  it-;  tone, and 
only  rcdooinod  from  pcilautry  by  tho 
force  of  Ills  intollcct;  witli  a  ta<!to 
extroinely  fastidious  and  refined; 
with  a  turn  for  taciturnity  and  terse- 
ness of  expression;  and  witli  a  (lin- 
gular mixture  of  niodesly  and  self- 
sut^ciency,  the  effect  at  onco  of 
consciousness  of  intellectual  ]x)wer 
and  knowledge,  and  a  constant  sense 
of  tho  beauty  and  propriety  of  humi- 
lity. 

The  result  of  all  these  physical 
and  mental  traits  is  that  ho  speaks 
at  first  in  a  nervous,  hesitating  kind 
of  way.  which,  however,  as  his  ideas 
flow  forth  freely  from  his  well- 
cultured  memory  and  richly-stored 
mind,  and  as  his  intellect  feels  its 
force  and  mastery  of  his  subject, 
becomes  more  rapid,  though  still 
with  a  nervous  kind  of  manner, 
and  every  now  and  then  with  a 
hesitation  not  the  result  of  any  de- 
ficiency of  words,  but  of  a  fastidious 
choice  of  an  expression,  tho  choice 
being  often,  as  already  illustrated, 
exceedingly  peculiar.  The  delivery 
is  hurried  and  ineflective,  and  never 
loses  its  air  of  hesitancy;  but  his 
manner  is  so  earnest  and  em]ihatic, 
and  withal  so  calm  and  impas- 
sioned, BO  thorouglily  intellectual 
in  its  tone,  its  correctness  so  ob- 
viously the  result  of  much  thought 
and  study,  deep  reflection,  and 
strong  and  clear  conviction,  that 
it  always  makes  an  impression: 
though  far  removed  from  oratory 
or  eloquence,  there  is  no  man  on 
the  Bench  who  conveys  so  much 
earnestness  with  such  jx-rfect  quiet- 
ness, snch  strength  and  clearness 
of  conviction  without  tlie  least  ap- 
proach to  vehemence.  His  style  of 
speaking  is  the  most  purely  intel- 
lectual of  any  judge  on  tiK;  common- 
law  Bench,  and,  to  nvert  again  to 
our  previous  co  npirison,  it  reminds 
one  more  of  Sir  James  Wilde  than 
any  other  judge,  except  as  to  its 
nervous,  hurried  manner  of  deli- 
very; for  Sir  Jami  s  Wilde  is  firm 
and  fluent :  and  though  l>oth  alike 
are,  a.s  already  observed,  disi)o-cd 
to  tx)  terse  in  expression,  he  is  more 
copious  than  Sir  James  Willes, 
whose  style  is  somewhat  more 
Bfcvere  and  restrained ;  and  again, 


Sir  James  Willes  is  far  more  formal 
in  his  f:tylc. 

Sir  James  Willes's  formality  of 
manner  and  fondness  for  allusions 
to  ancient  learning  sometimes  add 
to  the  air  of  pedantry ;  but  there 
is  no  man  in  reality  more  free  from 
it.  His  learning  is  genuine,  and 
there  is  no  judgi^  on  tho  l)ench 
who  so  happily,  in  his  mind,  unites 
ancient  wisdom  with  modern  en 
lightenment,  and  bhiiils  the  expe- 
rience of  the  past  with  the  philo- 
sophy of  the  present.  He  has 
gathered  from  the  learning  of  past 
ages  all  its  richest  treasures,  and 
he  applies  and  improves  them  to 
tho  practical  uses  of  tho  present 
time.  It  was  this  property  of  his 
mind  which  made  his  labours  so 
valuable  as  a  Common  Law  Com- 
missioner in  improving  our  system 
of  civil  procedure. 

There  is  one  trait  in  the  judicial 
character  of  jMr.  Justice  Willes 
which  will  commend  him  to  our  fair 
readers  and  to  all  generous-minded 
men,  and  perhaps  goes  a  great  way 
to  qualify  him  for  the  Divorce  Court, 
and  that  is,  a  chivalrous  feeling  for 
woman,  a  deep  sense  of  her  worth, 
a  warm  sympathy  for  her  trials,  a 
kind  indulgence  for  her  failings,  and 
a  strong  teeling  of  indignation  at 
her  wrongs.  Let  any  man  who  has 
in  any  way  behaved  badly  to  a 
woman  beware  iiow  he  comes  for 
trial  before  Sir  James  Wille.s,  for  it 
will  go  hardly  with  him.  He  is 
nevei;  more  severe  in  his  sentences 
than  in  such  cases.  Ho  always 
'  leans  to  woman's  side,'  and  if  the 
case  is  doubtful,  is  disposed  to  give 
it  against  the  man.  lie  is  'to  her 
faults  a  little  blind,  and  to  her  vir- 
tues very  kind.'  He  always  remem- 
bers that  she  is  the  'weaker  ve.s.sel,' 
and  tliat  it  is  for  man  to  protect 
her.  not  to  wrong  her  or  injure  her; 
and  if  a  man,  in  his  opinion,  has 
clearly  behaved  badly  to  a  woman 
he  will  do  his  !)est  to  ))unish  liim 
for  it;  not,  ofcour.se,  i)y  warping 
the  law,  he  is  far  too  conscientious 
and  strict  in  his  ideas  of  law  to  do 
that ;  but  if  there  is  no  doubt  as  to 
tlie  facts,  and  it  is  plain  the  woman 
has  at  all  events  l)een  l)adly  treated, 
it  will  go  hardly  with  the  man  if  he 
is  tried   before  Sir  James  WjIIcs. 


Sketches  of  the  English  Bench  and  Bar. 


851 


He  is  always,  in  cases  where  women 
are  the  pro=cci;tors,  especially  if 
yonng  women  or  girls,  exceedingly 
tender,  considerate,  and  delicate  in 
his  tone  towards  them,  and  while 
perfectly  just,  he  does  his  best  for 
them ;  and  this  is  so  whether  the 
matter  be  civil  or  criminal.  In  this 
he  diifers  greatly  from  some  other 
iudges,  whose  tone  towards  women 
on  such  occasions  shows  that  they 
don't  believe  in  women,  and  that 
their  disposition  is  against  them. 
Very  far  otherwise  is  it  with  Sir 
James  Willes.  The  inclination  of 
some  of  his  brethren  is  always  to 
treat  woman  as  the  tempter ;  he  is 
more  disposed  to  regard  her  as  the 
sufferer,  and  as  falling  a  prey  to  the 
temptations  of  the  stronger  sex. 
His  idea  always  is,  that  a  man, 
being  stronger,  should  protect  a 
woman,  if  need  be,  even  against 
herself,  not  betray  her  or  ever  take 
advantage  of  her  fondness  for  him. 
Hence  he  is  very  much  against  the 
man  in  cases  ot  seduction  or  breach 
of  promise  of  marriage.  '  If  a  man 
misleads  and  ruins  a  young  woman,' 
he  said  once,  on  an  occasion  of  this 
kind, '  he  ought  to  be  made  to  pay 
lor  it.'  The  jury  took  the  hint  and 
gave  large  damages.  The  words 
were  few  and  simple,  but  they  were 


uttered  with  that  nervous,  hurried 
emphasis  which  perhaps  betokens 
strong  feeling  as  much  as  eloquence, 
and  they  had  the  same  effect.  So 
on  another  occasion,  a  most  remark- 
able case  of  breach  of  promise  of 
marriage,  tried  before  Mr.  Justice 
Willes,  where  the  excuse  was  that 
the  young  man's  mother  did  not 
like  the  girl.  '  Gentlemen,'  said  the 
judge  to  the  jury,  '  if  a  man  has 
promised  to  marry  a  young  woman, 
he  ought  to  marry  her.'  What  could 
be  more  simple,  and,  to  read,  what 
might  be  supposed  to  be  more  tame  ? 
But  these  few  simple  words  were 
uttered  with  all  that  peculiar  air  of 
suppressed  feeling  which  is  so  cha- 
racteristic of  him,  and  they  had  an 
immense  effect,  as  the  verdict 
showed,  for  the  jury  gave  2500/. 
damages,  one  of  the  largest  ever 
known.  These  instances  may  suf- 
fice to  show  that  Sir  James  Willes 
has  that  sympathy  for  the  fair  sex 
which  men  of  generous  minds 
usually  have,  and  which  certainly 
that  sex  will  consider,  to  say  the 
least,  no  small  qualification  for  the 
office  of  Judge  of  the  Divorce  Court, 
especially  as  it  is  controlled  by  a 
most  severe  and  pertect  sense  of 
justice. 


852 


PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES. 


CHAPTER  X. 

'  BLOOD   IS  TniCKEn  THAN   WATER.' 


S' 


I IX  years  ago,  when  Fate  had 
graciously  i)e.stowc(l  that  white 
elephant  Miriun  upon  Mr.  Sutton, 
ho  had  made  an  earnest  but  fruit- 
less attempt  to  arouse  her  interest 
on  behalf  of  some  niemhers  of  his 
own  family.  His  father  and  motiier 
were  dead,  but  his  brothers  and  a 
sister  were  alive  and  in  high  health, 
and  anything  but  corresponding 
circumstances.  Mark  had  l)een,  as 
has  been  seen,  the  succe-sful  one  of 
the  family.  The  rest  had  laid  their 
respective  talents  up  in  a  spirit  of 
over-cantion  that  had  kept  l)oth 
excitement  and  wealth  from  their 
doors.  They  had  all  given  vent  to 
*  warning  80un<ls,  and  been  ready 
with  fluent  prognostications  of  evil 
things  to  come  for  him  when  Mark 
commenced  the  speculations  that 
eventually  floated  liim  on  to  fortune. 
They  had  stood  afar  off  from  him, 
prophesying  that  he  would  go  up 
like  a  rocket,  perhaps,  and  down 
like  it«  stick  surely,  and  had  gene- 
rally been  sententious  and  given 
to  declaring  that  the  paths  their 
parents  trod,  and  the  lives  their 
parents  le<l,  and  the  modest  com- 
petencies their  parents  ma<lo,  were 
good  and  great  enough  for  them. 

But  when  Mark  succeeded — when 
he  went  up  like  the  before-quoted 
rocket,  and  seemed  very  unlikely 
ever  to  come  down  again,  they  for- 
gave him  for  having  falsified  their 
predictions,  and  affably  l)orrowed 
money  of  him  wherewith  to  increase 
their  own  busiue.s.se3,  and  were  alto- 
gether affectionate,  and  much  im- 
bued wit'i  the  family  mind  towards 
him,  as  ua.-.  lit  and  wise. 

Mark  Sutton  lieing  a  plain,  prac- 
tical man,  oj)|K)se<l  unconsciously  to 
vain  expectations  of  j)eoj)lu  W-ing 
nol)ler  than  they  were,  accepted  the 
change  in  the  fraternal  sentiments 
towards  himself,  and  seemed  to  con- 
sider them  as  the  reasonable  off- 
spring of  common  sen.se  and  expe- 
diency. He  knew  that  they  had 
all  thought  him  wrong  in  bygone 


days.  Ho  knew  that  they  had  Ixjcn 
wrong  in  thinking  this,  and  lie 
knew  that  they  knevv  that  he  knew 
it.  But  he  took  his  triumph  meekly, 
and  never  reminded  tliem  of  any- 
thing that  they  eviiluutly  wished  to 
forget,  and  altogetLier  conducted 
himself  for  awhile  (juite  alter  the 
pattern  of  the  ideal  rich  relation  ot 
romance. 

His  only  sister  had  married  a 
farmer  and  grazier  of  the  name  ot 
Bowden— a  man  who  was  ricli  in 
flocks  and  herds,  and  who  com- 
manded a  good  market.  He  had 
died  shortly  t>eforo  Mark  Sutton's 
marriage  with  Mi.>*s  Talbot,  leaving 
his  widow  and  tour  children  (all 
girls)  amply  provided  lor,  under  a 
will  of  which  Mark  Sutton,  wlio 
was  also  his  nieces'  guardian,  was 
sole  executor.  Shortly  alter  Bow- 
den's  death  Mark  Sutton  married, 
and  made  that  earnest  attempt 
which  has  been  chronicled  to  inte- 
rest Marian  in  his  relations— prin- 
cipally in  Mrs.  Bowden  and  lier 
darghters.  And  ]\Iarian  mutely  re- 
fused to  be  interested,  and  Mark 
tacitly  accepted  her  decision. 

Still  thougli  his  sister  girded 
against  him  garrulously  down  in 
her  own  locality  in  the  heart  of  a 
midlaml  county,  for  letting  his  '  fine 
lady  wife  wean  him  from  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,'  the  management  of 
her  affairs  continued  in  his  hands, 
and  her  store  increased.  From  time 
to  time  lie  Ixirrowed  money  of  her, 
money  wliich  was  always  quickly 
returned  with  heavy  interest;  and 
at  length  he  persuailed  her  to  let 
him  8f)eculate  on  her  account,  which 
she  did,  until  at  the  date  of  the 
opening  of  this  story  the  well-to-<lo 
widow  had  become  a  very  wealthy 
one. 

When  Mr.  I'owden  died  his  eldest 
daughter,  a  sharp  little  girl  of 
twelve,  had  Ixicn  removed  from 
school  '  to  Ix)  a  comfort '  to  her 
mother.  In  solx-r  truth,  .Mrs.  Bow- 
den stood  in  no  8])ccial  need  of  par- 


Prawn  bv  W.  Small 


TRY   TO   KEEP   FIRM    AND   TRUE." 

[See  "  I'laviiii;-  for  Hii;h  Stakes 


Pl'tijln^l  for  flijh  S>.alce». 


353 


ticular  comfort  at  this  juncture,  for 
tlie  deecasctl  Mr.  Bowden  liad  uevcr 
been  much  more  tlian  the  brcad- 
wmuur  to  her;  and  she  was  a  woman 
blessed  with  a  sotmd  digestion,  a 
good  appetite,  and  an  aptitude  for 
finding  consolation  in  solid  com- 
forts. But  she  was  a  decorous 
woman,  one  wlio  never  put  herseh^ 
up  in  the  sh'ghtcst  degree  against 
public  opinion.  So  when  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  little  country  town 
where  she  lived  told  her  'she  must 
life  for  her  children  now,'  and  two 
or  three  of  her  neighbours  added 
that  if  they  were  in  her  place  they 
'  would  have  Elly  liome;  none  could 
say  how  much  better  she  would  feel 
if  she  Icept  the  dear  child  under  her 
own  eye ' — when  these  things  had 
been  duly  said,  and  enforced  with 
the  sighs  and  shakes  of  the  liead 
that  are  ordiuariiy  and  .judiciously 
brought  to  bear  on  the  bereaved, 
Mrs  Bowden  took  Elly  home,  and 
at  once  ceased  to  think  of  her  object 
in  doing  so. 

Her  uncle  and  guardian  agreed 
to  the  plan,  thinking  perhaps  that 
he  could  do  nothing  else,  since  his 
wife  had  made  it  impossible  for 
other  than  mere  business  relations 
to  exist  between  his  sister  aud  him- 
self. So  witliout  let  or  hmdrance 
Miss  Bowden  came  home  from 
school,  and  grev  up  in  the  atmo- 
spliere  of  a  coimtry  town— grew  up 
ju^t  what  might  have  been  expected 
from  her  parentage,  her  wealth,  and 
the  liberty  she  enjoyed. 

Now  it  happened  that  though 
Mark  Sutton  was  much  older  in 
years,  and  far  more  experienced  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  tliau  Edgar 
Talbot,  that  the  latter  had  obtained 
a  business  ascendancy  over  Ms 
brother-in-law — an  ascendancy  of  a 
marked  and  positive  characler — an 
ascendancy  which  Mr.  Edgar  Talbot 
did  not  hesitate  to  employ  when  it 
suited  his  purpose.  It  had  suited 
his  purpose  lately  to  rais-e  heavy 
sums  of  iiioney  from  Mark  Sutton, 
and  additionally  to  malie  Mark  a 
sort  of  partner  in  his  ventures. 
What  those  ventures  were  need  not 
be  told  here.  It  would  be  easy  to 
introduce  facts  connected  with  the 
Stock  Exchange  -easy  to  employ 
technicalities  in  describing  theux — 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXIV. 


easy  to  pad  this  story  with  any 
quantity  of  basiuess  matter,  but  I 
shall  refrain  trora  doing  so.  The 
high  slalces  lor  which  Edgar  Talbot 
was  playing  were  a  brilliant,  unas- 
sailable social  position,  and  a  power 
of  influencing  divers  governments 
throng U  their  treasuries.  The  alter- 
natioJis  of  his  luck  will  be  marked, 
but  there  is  no  need  to  describe 
each  card  as  he  plays  it. 

The  last  effort  of  this  embryo 
Eothscliild's  mind  over  Mr.  Sutton 
resulted  in  the  latter  atteiiipting  to 
negotiate  a  loan  with  his  sister, 
I\Irs.  Bowden.  He  had  every  reason 
to  suppose  that  she  would  accede 
willingly  to  his  proposition.  The 
fortune  her  husband  had  left  had 
been  more  than  doubled  by  her 
brother's  judicious  investments.  But 
Mrs.  Bowden  was  a  cautious  woman, 
and  now  that  it  had  come  to  Mark 
wanting  to  borrow  a  very  heavy 
sum  of  her,  she  suffered  no  senti- 
ments of  gratituiie  for  the  luck  that 
had  hitherto  attended  his  specula- 
tions on  her  behalf  to  intervene,  but 
resolved  not  to  give  liim  a  favour- 
able answer  until  she  had  seen  him, 
learnt  his  -^iq^b,  under^tiod  his 
plans,  and  won  through  his  wife  an 
introduction  into  society  for  Miss 
Bowden. 

London  life— at  least  the  London 
life  led  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutton — 
loomed  largely  in  the  atmosphere  of 
that  little  country  town  where  Mrs. 
Bowden  lived.  Partly  througli  ig- 
norance, and  partly  through  pride, 
she  overrated  the  position  of  Mark 
and  his  wife.  In  his  quiet,  unob- 
trusive way  he  had  put  Marian  before 
his  own  people  as  a  star  of  great 
magnitude;  and  so  Mrs.  Bowdeu,, 
away  out  of  reach  of  the  crucible 
where  Mrs.  Sutton's  ijretensions 
could  be  tested,  fell  into  error  re- 
specting her  sister-in-law,  and  pic- 
tured her  as  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant, persistent,  and  powerful  vota- 
ries of  pleasure  and  fashion.  It 
luay  be  added  that  Mrs.  Bowden  s 
notions  as  to  the  career  run  by  one 
of  tliese  favoured  beings  had  been 
gathered  from  a  diligent  perusal 
of  the  novels  of  the  sihtr  fork 
school.  What  added  pungency  to 
the  desire  she  had  to  introduce 
Elly  to  Mrs,  Sutton,  was  the  belief 

2:  A 


3.^4 


Playing  for  High  Stalces. 


rI'.c  lia'l  that  tlint'.iph  tliat  l.idy's 
inflacnco  Ellen  would  marry  well — 
at  any  rate,  lie  imluccil  to  forget  an 
oUl  fricrd  will)  bad  grownup  loving 
and  lovcil  l>y  lior. 

So  wlicn  ^Iiirlc  Sutton  asked  n 
gOv)d  l)g  favour  of  her,  she  deter- 
mined to  make  the  graiiting  of  it 
Well  worth  her  own  while. 

'  Beforo  I  lend  tho  money  to  yon, 
I  should  like  to  have  a  conversation 
with  you.  It  would  bo  idle  to  seek 
to  draw  IMrs.  Mark  and  you  out  of 
tlic  gay  voitex  by  inviting  you  here, 
so  I  shall  take  Elly  up  to  London 
for  a  month,  starting  to-morrow, 
when  we  shall  have  opportunities 
of  meeting.' 

Then  she  went  on  to  give  him 
lier  London  adilress— a  good  family 
hotel  in  Piccadilly,  for  it  was  no 
part  of  her  plan  to  force  herself 
upon  him  at  his  houso  until  he 
entreated  her  to  come. 

lie  had  received  this  letter  (only 
the  housemaid  wlio  lighted  tho  fire 
the  following  morning  with  the  torn 
copies  of  it  knew  what  it  had  cost 
Mrs.  Bowden  in  the  inditing)  on  tho 
day  that  witnessed  the  Lyons'  ad- 
vent at  Edgar  Talbot's  houso. 
During  tlic  evening  ho  had  com- 
municated the  contents  of  it  to 
Edgar,  adding  that  he  had  .said 
nothing  about  it  yet  to  Marian,  as 
bIic  .shrank  from  all  a.'^.sociation  with 
his  family. 

'She  nmst  get  over  tliat  falsely 
fine  folly  in  this  ca.=^e,'  her  brother 
said,  ahno.st  har.shly;  'you  must 
make  ^birian  civil  to  your  sister.' 
Tl'.en  ho  took  Mrs.  Bowdcu'.s  note 
and  glanced  over  it  again,  sneering 
an-l  laughing  to  himself  at  that 
phrase  about  tho  'gay  vortex,'  and 
iidde'l, '  .she  comes  up  to-day,  I  see  ; 
you  nuist  make  Marian  call  on  lier 
to  morrow.' 

Somehow  or  other  it  hurt  Maik 
Sill  ton  to  hear  this  tone  used  about 
liiH  wife,  ev(  II  l>y  l;er  own  l)rothcr. 
'  I  will  ask  her  to  do  it,'  he  answered, 
curtly. 

'Ask  her,  and  you  know  what 
she'll  say,  or  at  hast  what  she  will 
look  if  you  "  a^k  '  her  in  that  tone; 
)ou  mu-t  make  her  do  it,  Mark.' 

'  That  I  cannot.' 

'Then  I  can.' 

Edgar  Talbot  spoke  abruptly  and 


imperiously,  .iiid  Miik  .'^ulton  had 
to  fall  back  upon  tho  old,  ever- 
recurring  situatit)n  of  accepting 
what  Edgar  had  spoken,  in  dread 
lest  ho  should  speak  still  wonso 
things.  It  was  always  well  within 
tho  bounds  of  jnobability  that 
Marian  might  have  been  guilty  of 
Fomo  act  of  folly  with  which  her 
brother  was  acquainted,  though  her 
husband  was  not. 

'If  her  regard  for  mo'  (Mark 
Sutton  spoke  in  a  very  low,  humble 
tone), '  If  her  regard  for  me  prompts 
her  to  please  mo  by  calling  on  my 
sister,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  her; 
but  I  will  not  coerce  her.' 

He  spoke  so  decidedly  that  Edgar 
Talbot  said  no  more  to  him  about 
tho  matter.  But  the  following  day 
— long  before  Mrs.  Lyon  had  got 
hcrsel  f  and  her  scru]iles  under  weigh 
for  tho  studio— i\rr.  Talbot  had 
called  on  Mrs.  Sutton,  and  made 
her  see  tho  propriety  not  so  much 
of  calling  on  Mrs.  Bowden  without 
delay,  as  of  obliging  him. 

'You  will  be  prepared  to  meet 
them  then  I  hope,  for  I  am  sure  I 
shall  not  know  who  else  to  a^-k,'  sho 
.said,  scornfully.  To  which  ho  re- 
plied— 

'  Oh,  nonsen?c!  that  .'^ort  of  thing 
iB  all  nonsense:  women's  minds  nro 
always  running  on  tho  necessity  for 
organizing  dreary  .^ocial  gatherings. 
You  need  not  ask  me  or  anyone  else 
to  meet  them— only  bo  civil  to 
them.' 

'How?' 

'  That  I  leave  to  you,'  ho  replied, 
rising  up  to  go  away.  '  I  only  tell 
you  to  lo.so  no  time  about  it.' 

So  it  carao  to  pass  that  Mr.'.  Sut- 
ton, instead  of  going  to  the  studio, 
went  to  call  on  lier  husband's  sister. 

It  was  as  aliout  as  distasteful  an 
employment  as  could  jvjssibly  have 
been  conceived  for  her  l)y  her  worst 
enemy.  The  widnv  was  far  from 
being  tho  mot  terrible  part  of  tho 
trial  to  .Marian.  Mr.^.  I'owden  was 
a  I  appy,  hearty,  largo,  Imxom  wo- 
man, wlo  mado  a  merit  of  and 
revoikd  in  her  lack  of  refinement. 
Sho  was  honest,  out-poken,  healthy, 
and  aggressively  high-spiiited  and 
hilariou.s.  Thero  was  a  touch  of 
sly  humour  in  tho  way  sho  mado 
manifest  her  perfect  understanding 


Playing  for  High  SiaJces. 


355 


oF  tho  causes  ■which  had  biwight 
Mrs.  I\Iaik  to  call  upon  licr  at  last; 
and  IMai'ian  recognised  this  touch 
and  appic'ciatcd  it  as  a  species  of 
cuijuiiig  insight  into  other  people's 
feelings  that  was  twin  to  her  own. 
Moreover,  for  herself,  Mrs.  Bowdcn 
wanted  nothing  of  the  fair,  selfish 
lady,  whose  power  of  giving  was 
gained  entirely  from  Mrs.  Bowden's 
brother.  A  course  of  shopping, 
methodical  and  unceasing  during 
the  week,  and  a  course  of  musical 
services  at  one  of  tho  churches  most 
celebrated  for  its  choir  on  Sundays, 
wiis  all  Mrs.  Bowden  desired  for 
herself  in  tho  way  of  metropolitan 
gaiety,  ikit  she  asked  for  more 
than  those  things  for  her  daughter. 

Tho  girl  was  standing  by  tho 
window  when  Mrs.  Bowden  came 
into  the  room,  looking  out  upon  the 
ceaseless  stir  and  excitement  in 
which  she  had  no  share,  and  halt 
wishing  herself  at  homo  again, 
where  every  spot  had  its  interest, 
and  every  hour  its  occupation  for 
lier.  She  looked  out  upon  a 
butcher's  shop,  a  publishing  ofBce, 
and  a  cab-stand.  There  was  no- 
thing visible  of  the  glory  and 
grandeur,  of  the  beauty  and  fashion 
of  which  she  had  heard  and  read. 
The  high  street  ol  their  own  little 
country  town  could  show  them 
brigliter  and  more  seductive  shop 
windows  than  any  she  could  see 
from  her  post  of  observation  in  this 
excellent  family  hotel.  Overladen 
omnibuses — they  seemed  overladen 
to  her — horribly-horsed  cabs,  and 
long  lines  of  earnest,  anxious-look- 
ing pedestrian:^!  The  heart  of  the 
country  girl  sank  down  as  she 
looked  out  on  these  things,  and  felt 
despondently  that  she  had  nothing 
brighter  before  her  for  a  month. 
As  this  conviction  smote  her,  '  I\Irs. 
Sutton '  was  announced,  and  she 
turned  and  acknowledged  that  some- 
thing brighter  was  before  her  al- 
ready. 

Marian  has  been  already  de- 
scribed. Picture  her  now  as  she 
came  in  with  a  bright,  light,  roso 
tint  on  her  cheeks,  the  effoct  of  tho 
winter  air  and  of  annoyance  that 
was  hardly  subdued.  She  looked 
pretty,  graceful,  smooth.  There 
was  a  ]promise  about  her  appearance 


of  those  better  things  which  Miss 
Bowden  had  vaguely  expected  to 
find  in  Loudon.  She  welcomed 
them,  and  male  manifest  her  sense 
of  tho  relationship  that  existed  be- 
tween th  :m  in  a  few  simple  words 
that  seemed  to  Elly  Bowden  the 
perfection  of  sound.  Mrs.  Sutton 
was  neither  too  warm  nor  too  cool 
to  them.  She  had,  in  truth,  made  a 
little  study  of  the  manner  it  would 
bo  advisable  to  bring  to  bear  upon 
them,  and  she  was  perfect  in  her 
part,  hard  as  it  was  for  her  to  play 
to  such  an  audience. 

To  the  girl  who  turned  from  the 
window  to  meet  her,  Mrs.  Sutton 
took  a  contemptuous  dishko  at  once. 
Theoretically  she  had  always  de- 
spised the  Bowdens,  and  held  aloof 
from  them,  as  has  been  seen,  and 
now  at  sight  of  them  she  declared 
to  herself  that  her  theory  was  jus- 
tified. There  was  no  appeal  against 
that  decision,  no  softening  influence 
in  the  mother's  evident  pleasure, 
and  the  girl's  evident  gratitude  to 
her  for  having  come  at  aU.  She 
contrasted  Miss  Bowden's  healthy, 
mottled,  plump  cheeks  with  her 
own  little,  delicate,  fair  face;  and 
when  the  girl  put  a  great,  hearty, 
rather  red  hand  out  to  her,  Mrs. 
Sutton  had  strong  need  to  remember 
all  her  brother's  injunctions  before 
she  could  bring  herself  to  touch  it 
with  cordiality. 

'  I  bring  a  message  from  Mark ; 
he  will  give  me  an  hour  here  alone 
to  get  acquainted  with  you,  and 
then  he  will  call  for  me,'  she 
said,  turning  to  the  beaming  Mrs. 
Bowden,  who  forgave  the  estrauge- 
n-iCnt  at  Oi,ce,  after  a  generous 
fashion  that  Marian  would  have 
thought  utterly  incompatible  with 
her  sister-in-law's  manner  and  pro- 
vincialisms, had  she  given  herself 
to  the  consieleratiou  of  such  trifling 
causes  and  elfects.  And  then  Mrs. 
Bowelen,  after  declaring  that  she 
'  should  be  glad  to  see  her  brother 
at  any  time,'  grew  affectionately 
communicative  to  his  herald,  until 
Mrs.  Sutton  had  to  strengthen  her- 
self by  the  reflection  that  an  hour  is 
only  sixty  minutes,  and  that  'every- 
thing must  come  to  an  end.' 

By-anel-by  Mrs.  Bowden  made  an 
excuse  for  banishing  her  daughter 

2   A    2 


356 


Plnyir.ij  for  HSijli  Sfnkes. 


for  a  while,  in  order  that  she  niipht 
discuss  poiue  of  her  own  hojws  con- 
ceminp  Ellen  aui  Ellen's  character 
with  the  new  lelative,  nlniut  whose 
matMcally  retiuing  touch  Mrs.  Bow- 
den  permitted  herself  to  be  very 
hopeful. 

'  Is  that  your  eldest  daughter?' 
Mrs.  Sutton  inquired,  as  Miss  Bow- 
den  went  away  from  the  room, 
reluctimtly,  in  olx^licnc©  to  the 
maternal  [>ehest,  to  search  for  some- 
thing that  she  had  grave  doubts  as 
to  her  mother  having  brought  with 
her,  and  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  her 
mother  not  wanting.  Mi-s.  Sutton 
made  this  inquiry  in  order  that  it 
might  lie  understood  that  she  had 
never  pursued  the  sxabject  of  Mark's 
relations  with  keen  interest.  In 
fact,  she  was  keeping  the  '  word  of 
promise'  she  had  given  Edgar 
Talbot  '  to  the  ear,  and  breaking 
it  to  the  sense '  in  that  there  "was 
nothing  tangible  in  her  manner,  of 
which  Mrs.  Bowden,  a  woman  who 
was  acute  enough  in  her  feelings, 
could  take  h^Id  and  complain  even 
to  her  own  lieart  about ;  so  she 
answered  now  in  perfectly  good 
laith 

*  Yes,  my  eldest,  and  though  I 
say  it,  whoshoiildnt  say  it— though 
why  a  mother  shouldn't  I  have 
never  l)een  quite  sure— as  giX)J  a 
girl  as  ever  livcnl ;  foolish  as  young 
people  will  be,  you  know,  my  dear, 
very  foolish  inf^eed.' 

'  Indeed,'  Mrs.  Sutton  replied, 
with  the  faintest  possible  accent  of 
interest. 

'  Yes,'  Mrs.  Bowden  responded 
warmly,  to  even  that  faint  tone  of 
inlere.^t,  for  her  heart  was  wholly 
with  her  children,  and  she  grew 
very  thoroughly  in  farne«t  the  in- 
stant aught  concerning  them  was 
mooted.  Then  she  weiit  on  to  tell 
how  Elly  had  given  her  heart  to 
the  son  of  an  old  neigid)rmr  of 
theirs,  a  '  young  man  who  wa«  de- 
serving enough,  but  who  came  of  a 
stock  who  m  ver  could  do  more 
than  pay  their  way,  and  wlio.-e  way 
was  a  hard  one.  I  have  nothing 
to  pay  against  John  Wilniot '  she 
adde<J;  and  Mrs.  Sutton  Io<>k«J 
serene  imliffi-rence  to  any  thing  that 
could  pos.sibiy  hb  urged  in  extenua- 
tion of  or  in  malice  against  him. 


'  I  h  ivc  nothing  to  say  against  John 
Wilmot,  l>ut  Elly  might  do  l>ettor — 
and  she  will  get  to  feel  that  after 
seeing  more  of  you.' 

In  a  moment  the  indirect  flattery 
made  its  mark.  The  insatiable, 
grasping  vanity  of  the  woman  who 
listened,  made  the  commonplace 
words  of  the  one  who  spoke  dan- 
gerous, and  productive  of  evil  con- 
sequences. 3[rs.  Sutton  liked  to 
feel  that  in  her  more  graceful  pre- 
sence wa-s  the  power  of  making  a 
true-hearted,  contented  girl  feeble 
and  dissatisfied.  There  would  lie  a 
double  sati.'^f.ictiou  in  doii;g  this. 
She  would  at  once  revenge  herself 
on  these  people  for  being  connected 
with  her  (in  itself  an  unpardonable 
audacity),  and  she  would  ju-ove  to 
her  husband  and  her  astute  brother 
Edgar  that  they  had  erred  in  forc- 
ing this  personal  communication 
upon  her.  There  was  nothing 
Mrs.  Sutton  liked  better  than  hurt- 
ing some  one  else  when  she  was 
offended.  If  she  could  make  the 
offender  suffer,  it  was  good,  if  she 
could  not,  she  would  in  some  way 
Wfiund  the  next  neaiest,  and  be 
satisfied.  These  Bowdens  were  in- 
nocent of  all  wrong  towards  her 
(save  the  original  one  of  being  her 
husbands  kin);  but  not  the  less 
did  slie  mean  to  make  them  smart 
if  she  could  do  so  with  such  a  smd- 
ing  exterior  as  would  save  her  from 
being  found  out. 

'  When  people  put  themselves 
out  of  their  proper  places  it  serves 
them  right  if  they  suffer  for  it,' 
Mrs.  Sutton  thought  placidly,  as  she 
sat  and  listened  to  Mrs.  Bowden 's 
hopeful  predictions  concerning  the 
future  of  her  daughter,  if  by  any 
happy  chance  John  Wilmot  could 
be  put  out  of  her  head.  The 
thought  that  she  could  deftly  put 
in  a  few  refining  touches  of  sorrow- 
ful experitnce  on  the  canvas  of 
E11\'m  life,  almost  reconciled  the 
elegant  aunt  to  the  prospect  of  the 
companionship  of  the  inelegant 
nieco  for  a  time.  The  girl  had, 
durii)g  their  short  colloquy,  be- 
trayed something  like  a  genuine 
love  for  the  home  and  the  friends 
she  had  so  recently  left;  and  this 
had  roused  a  spirit  of  antagonism 
in  Marian,  who  had  not  a  genuine 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


357 


love  for  anything  save  herself. 
'  If  they  force  her  upjn  me  she 
eball  go  home  and  find  her  John 
Wilmot  tame,  dull,  and  unprofit- 
able/ Marian  thought,  when  iirs. 
Bowilen  had  finished  her  unwise 
revelations.  '  They  will  all  bore  her, 
and  she  will  never  be  fit  for  any- 
thing better,  and  it  will  serve  her 
right  for  putting  herself  out  of  her 
proper  place.'  It  would  have  been 
malevolence  oa  the  part  of  an  old, 
ugly,  unattractive  woman  to  harbour 
such  thoughts  as  these.  For  the 
wordiiig  of  less  hurtful  ones  old 
womsn  have  struggled  in  horse- 
ponds,  and  t>epn  f'therwi.s8  tortured 
by  their  more  enhghtened  fellows 
as  witches,  dangerous  to  the  com- 
munity. But  Marian  Surion  '  was 
fair  and  young  and  beautiful  ex- 
ceediogiy;'  moreover,  she  did  not 
word  her  thoughts,  nor  did  she 
snfFer  the  reflection  of  them  to  ap- 
pear on  her  face  as  they  rippled 
through  her  mind.  Both  ^Irs. 
Bowden  and  Ellen  were  dehghted 
with  her,  and  with  the  suggestive 
half-promises  she  made  of  future 
intercourse  —  delighted  with  and 
charmed  by  her  long  before  Mark 
Sutton  came  to  fetch  her  and  wel- 
come them. 

There  was  rather  a  fuller  exhi- 
bition of  family  feeling  made  when 
he  arrived.  Mrs.  Bo^rdea  had  re- 
strained herself  with  difaculty  be- 
fore, but  when  he  caTie  she  would 
ask  what  he  thought  of  EUy  ?  and 
point  out  in  w'  at  respect  that 
young  lady  resembled  the  Suttons 
more  than  the  Bowdens.  •'  She 
favours  her  father  about  the  eyes, 
and  her  hands  are  the  same  shape 
as  his;  but  in  all  eise  I  see  our 
mother  in  her,  don'c  you,  Mark?' 
Mrs.  Bowden  asked,  looking  with 
affectionate,  admiring  ejes  on  the 
blooming,  buxom  girl,  who  lapsed 
into  awkward  cons.^ionsne^s  of  a 
terribly  crushing  nature  under  the 
ill-advised  observati'jns.  It  woriied 
Miss  Bowden  and  nearly  made  her 
cry  to  see  Mrs.  Sutton's  eyes  settle 
upon  the  hands  quoted,  and  travel 
slowly  over  their  length  and  breadth. 
They  grew  redder  an  i  thicker  while 
the  tour  of  inspection  lasted.  The 
handsome  ring  the  girl  wore  seemed 
to  make   the    finger  it  was  upon 


stand  out  in  cruelly  strong  relief, 
in  a  way  it  hid  never  done  before, 
poor  Elly  ciuld  have  vowed.  Miss 
Bow.Jen's  sole  previous  experience 
of  great  ladies  (in  her  amiable  ig- 
norance she  placed  Mrs.  Sutton  at 
oLce  in  her  list;  had  been  gained 
from  the  squire's  wife  down  at  Bay- 
ford,  a  kiud'y  old  lady,  before  whom 
Elly  never  trembled  and  distrusted 
her  own  hands.  But  this  remem- 
brance brought  her  no  relief  now, 
as  she  sat  wondering  what  it  was 
that  made  her  so  difft^rent  to  her 
uncle's  wife. 

CHAPTEE  XL 

SELF-DECEPnO>'. 

The  winter  months  wore  away, 
speedily  for  some  of  these  people 
Tvhose  fortunes  we  are  following, 
slowly  for  others,  surely  for  all.  Mrs. 
Lyon,  for  instance,  found  the  life 
she  had  undertaken  to  lead  for  ^liss 
Talbot's  benefit  very  different  to  that 
which  she  had  anticipated  leading. 
J^here  was  less  variety,  less  excite- 
ment, less  dining  out  and  dinner 
giving,  less  dressiDg,  less  dancicg, 
less  amusements  altogether,  and, 
consequently,  less  occasion  for  her 
to  urge  faint  protests  against  dissi- 
pation than  she  had  confidently 
looked  forward  to  being  able  to  do. 
Accordingly  sometimes  the  hours 
lagged,  and  the  days  seemed  long, 
and  everything  a  mistake.  On  the 
other  hand,  Blanche,  also,  found  it  all 
verv  different  to  her  preconceived 
fears.  Now  that  Mr.  Talbot  had 
established  Mrs.  Lyon  as  Trixy's 
chaperone  and  guardian  angel  in 
society,  he  seemed  quite  contented 
to  keep  Tiixy  very  much  out  •  of 
society.  In  short,  he  instituted  a 
quiet,  regular  routine,  which  Blanche 
saw  established  with  very  great 
pleasure,  and  which  she  helped  very 
materially  to  maintain  in  unbroken 
integrity. 

'  I  have  a  good  deal  on  my  mind, 
and  I  do  not  care  to  go  and  stand 
about  on  other  people's  staircases 
j^st  now ;  vou  must  go  without  me, 
Trixy,'  Ecfgir  Talbot  said  to  his 
sister,  when  an  invitation  for  the 
whole  party  (which  Mrs.  Satton  had 
procured  for  them)  arrived,  shortly 
after  Mrs.  Lyon  and  her  daughter 


358 


Plai/ing  for  Tliijli  Slakes, 


had  rome  to  live  witli  tlicm.  '  Nor 
do  I,  not  a  bit,  lvl.c;ar,'  Trixy  IkuI 
rejilicil,  c;ip;oily.  Then  Miss  Talbot 
hftd  pone  on  to  pive  lier  brother 
scvcnil  cxoellent  and  unanswerable 
reasons  agaiiist  her  going  out  lor 
awhile.  And  he  being  glad  to 
keep  his  home  circle  inlaet,  acco2)ted 
them  after  a  lirief  protest. 

'  lint  the  Lyons!  It's  not  fair  to 
cage  l\Iiss  Lyoa  here  in  solitude/  ho 
said  to  his  sister. 

Trixy  moved  her  shoulders  with  a 
little,  irujiaticnt  gesture.  Something 
liad  made  the  girl  very  clcar-.'^ighted 
al)Out  many  mattci-s ;  and  she  saw, 
as  in  a  crystal  hall,  that  Blanche 
Lyon  was  as  averse,  or  rather  as  in- 
ditferent,  to  miscellaneous  gatherings 
as  she  was  lierself.  Miss  Talbot 
accounted  for  this  fact  very  readily 
and  very  bitterly,  wlicn  she  con- 
descended to  take  counsel  of  herself 
conceiTiiiig  it.  Tlie  two  young 
painters— the  genuine  ai-tist,  and 
the  dasln'ng  amateur — were  not 
about  in  the  set  to  which  Eilgar  and 
the  Suttons  had  a-.-ccss ;  'and  she 
only  cares  to  meet  her  cousin/ 
Trixy  thought,  indignantly,  as  she 
answered — 

'  Oh,  a  home  life  suits  the  Lyons 
best :  they  say  so.  Pray  don't  think 
of  them.' 

But  Edgar  did  think  of  them,  or, 
at  least,  of  one  of  them,  and  pleased 
him.self  liarmlessly  by  thinking  what 
a  goo<l  thing  it  was  that  'a  homo 
life  suited  them  best ;'  it  suited  him 
best  too.  When  some  of  his  ships 
carae  home  — when  f-omo  of  the 
schemes  now  tremblingin  the  balance 
between  failure  and  success  were 
assured  of  the  latter — when,  in  fact, 
the  scores  of  lirilliaiit  ])robabilities 
that  had  rather  overset  his  judg- 
ment of  late,  and  made  him  rasii, 
re.solvel  themselves  into  accom- 
plishe  i  facts— then  he  would  speed 
his  wooing,  and  Blanche  Lyon  and 
he  would  have  a  home  lilo  worth 
living. 

So  he  thought  and  liopcd  and 
l)!anned  for  the  future,  and  mean- 
while trie<l  to  be  very  well  satisfied 
with  things  as  they  were.  Blanche 
Lyon  was  evidently  beroming  in- 
terrsttd  in  him,  he  lelt.  Sliesliowcd 
it  in  the  thou.sand  delicate,  minute, 
almost  imperceptible  ways  in  which 


a  refined  woman  can  show  it,  ho  as- 
sured himself.  She  was  iii1ere>tod 
in  his  family,  interested  even  in  that 
praiseworthy  but  minor  uiatlcr  o. 
his  luofhcr's  sucre-s.  In  a  conver- 
sation she  had  with  him  one  day— a 
conversation  in  which  slic  was  (juite 
carried  out  of  the  customary  calm 
which  mai'ked  her  demean  .ur  to- 
wards him — she  spoke  out  somo  of 
her  thoughts  as  to  the  rtlativu 
merits  of  Mr.  Ba'hursfs  and  Mr. 
Lionel  Talbot's  works  in  a  way  that 
nearly  cured  Edgar  of  his  jealousy 
of  tlie  former.  '  You  com])arc  them  ! 
You  actually  compare  tlieml'  she 
paid,  in  the  iietulaut  tone  of  one  who 
is  stung  out  of  all  power  of  proving 
the  comparison  odious  by  its  hav- 
ing been  made  at  all.  '  They  arc  on 
such  diflfercnt  love's  that  you  must 
pull  one  up  or  drag  the  oth(-r  down 
in  doing  it:  it's  not  fair  to  your 
brother.' 

'  Tiie  time  has  not  arrived,  in  your 
estimation,  then,  for  Cajsar  to  be 
])raised  without  derogating  from 
Pompcy.' 

'  Your  quotation  hardly  fits  the 
subject.  If  you  do  not  Icel  what  I 
do  about  it,  Mr.  Talhot,  it  is  hope- 
less to  try  and  1(  ach  you.  I  appre- 
ciate all  Frank  Ballunst  has  done, 
ai.d  is  trying  to  do,  and  thinks  ho  is 
trying  to  do.  I  think  it  is  very 
good  of  him,  in  a  wiiy,  to  make  the 
attempt  to  be  something  more  than 
other  people  have  nm<Ie  him;  and  I 
hope  his  picture  will  bo  well  hung 
and  well  mentioned,  and  then  he 
can  goon  i)aintingand  havingsome- 
tliing  to  think  aliout;  but  it's 
absurd  to  com2)are  him  witii  your 
brother.' 

She  was  a  woman  who  emphasised 
her  words  ever  so  slightly,  often 
lading  the  stress  in  the  wrong  place. 
In  this  case  she  rather  softly 
breathed  upon  than  en)pliasised  the 
last  wi  rd  but  one  of  her  sentence. 
And  Edgar  Talbot  felt  that  it  would 
be  well  sometimes,  jjirhajis,  for  his 
wife  to  be  well  disposed  towards 
Lionel,  all  for  his  (Edgar's)  sake,  ot 
cour.-e.  Amongst  o'her  tlu'ngs,  he 
had  lately  invested  Lionel's  money 
in  some  da/.zlingly  promising  shares 
on  his  own  account.  Wlien  the 
bark  of  fortune  came  sailing  in,  ho 
felt  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to 


Playing  fur  High  Stakes. 


359 


aclmowledj^c  the  tcmpjrary  obliga- 
tion to  Lionel,  by  givino;  linn  as  lart^c 
a  share  as  lie  chose  to  take  in  the 
home  life  he  (Edgar)  couteraplalcd. 
'  Do  you  really  feel  this  about  my 
brother  ?'  he  asked,  ctlnio^t  tenderly ; 
and  Blanche  turned  her  face  full 
upon  him,  covereJ,  as  it  v/a^,  with  a 
quick,  hot  blush,  as  she  rej^lied, 
'  Indeed,  I  do ;  indeed,  I  do,  Mr. 
Talbot.'  He  was  resolved  to  bide 
his  time.  But  his  di\ani  of  bliss 
promised  very  fairly,  he  felt. 

Meantime  Mr.  Frank  Bathurst,  in 
blest  unconsciousness  of  the  c^xact 
nature  of  his  cousin's  sentiments  to- 
wards him,  went  on  iDainting  in  and 
painting  out  his  Venuscs,  and  en- 
joying his  life,  and  cherishing  his 
own  notions  regarding  the  daphne, 
and  finding  the  quiet  evenings  Lionel 
and  be  frequently  spent  at  Edgar 
Talbot's  house  better  than  any  other 
form  of  entertainment  his  wealth  and 
position  procured  him.  For  some 
reason  or  other  best  known  to  him- 
self, Mr.  Talbot  had  not  fulfilled  his 
threat  of  requesting  Lionel  to  keep 
Mr.  Bathurst  from  familiar  com- 
munion with  the  home  circle.  Marlc- 
ing  Blanche's  manner  to  Mr.  Ba- 
thurst with  the  naturally  impartial 
and  unprejudiced  eyes  of  a  man  who 
was  in  love  with  her  liimself,  Edgar 
Talbot  still  saw  nothing  and  feared 
nothing  that  could  by  any  possibility 
affect  his  peace  of  mind  about  her. 
She  was  very  frank  and  cordial  with 
Mr.  Bathurst ;  indeed,  she  talked  a 
great  deal  more  to  that  blithe  and 
well-satisfied  gentleman  than  she 
did  to  any  one  else.  But— and  in 
this,  at  least,  Mr.  Talbot  did  not  de- 
ceive himself — though  she  talked  to 
Frank  Bathurst  more  than  to  any 
one  else,  he  was  far  from  being  the 
most  interesting  person  to  her  in 
the  room.  She  talked  to  him,  and 
openly  expressed  pleasure  at  seeing 
him  ;  and  that  the  jileasure  was  un- 
feigned was  patent  to  any  one  Avho 
chanced  to  glance  at  her  when  the 
two  young  men  would  be  announced, 
and  she  let  him  see  that  the  relation- 
ship he  so  ardently  claimed  was  an 
agreeable  fact  to  her,  which,  indeed, 
it  was,  for  the  reasons  given  in  a 
former  chapter.  So  all  these  cir- 
cumstances combined  to  make  the 
quiet  domestic  evenings  exciting  and 


delightful  to  Frank  Bathurst,  They 
were  exciting  enough  to  Tiixy,  too; 
but,  perhaps,  any  one  would  have 
been  justified  in  declaring  them  to 
be  less  than  delightful  to  that  young 
lady,  as  '  her  eyes  on  all  their  mo- 
tions with  a  mute  observance  hung ' 
in  a  way  that  spoke  eloquently  to 
Lionel. 

They  were  not  seeing,  very  much 
of  the  Suttoiis  about  this  time.  Mrs. 
Sutton  laughed  at  the  '  new  order  of 
things,'  as  she  termed  it,  and  in  ad- 
dition to  laughing  at  them  all,  she 
had  taken  to  opposing  and  irritating 
Edgar.  Whatever  hold  Edgar  had  had 
upon  her  formerly  was  weakened  now, 
evidently.  She  ceased  to  maintain 
the  smallest  appearance  of  respect 
for  his  opinions.  She  openly  charged 
him  to  Beatrix  with  being  miser upu- 
lous  about  other  people's  feelings, 
fortunes,  happiness,  honour  almost, 
when  his  own  interests  were  at  stake. 
Whatever  his  intiueuce  over  her  had 
been,  she  had  freed  herself  from  it ; 
and  she  gloried  in  the  freedom,  and 
was  more  extravagant  and  vain, 
more  frivolous  and  conspicuous 
than  before ;  and  Ellen  Bowden  was 
with  her  a  great  deal,  and  Mrs. 
Bowden  began  to  hope  that  John 
Wil.iuot  w^onld  soon  cease  to  be  a 
stumbling-block  in  her  pretty 
daughter's  path. 

It  may  be  mentioned  here  that 
Mrs.  Bowden  had  been  very  ac- 
quiescent about  that  matter  which 
had  been  the  primary  oliject  of  her 
journey  to  Loudon.  She  had  not 
only  advanced  money  to  her  brother 
(whose  own  capital  was  farmed  out 
under  Edgar  Talbot's  advice),  but 
she  bought  shares  in  her  own  and 
her  children's  names  in  more  than 
one  promising  speculation.  '  Mark 
was  so  prudent,  far-seeing,  lionour- 
able,  and  right-thinking  altogether, 
that  there  mnst  be  safety  in  follow- 
ing where  he  led,'  she  argued,  when 
some  of  her  steady-going  old  country 
friends  warned  her  against  being  led 
away  and  dazzled  by  the  brazen 
images  that  were  the  reigning  gods 
of  the  Stock  Exchange.  Her  argu-  "* 
ment  was  unanswerable,  for  Mark 
Sutton's  character  for  probity  and 
caution  was  unassailal>le.  Neverthe- 
less, hints  to  the  effect  that  '  even 
he  might  be  mistaken  sometimes' 


3G0 


Playing  for  IThjh  Stakes. 


were  offi  rcl  to,  ami  (lisrc'p:ardc(l  by 
her.  The  greed  of  gain,  the  fever 
of  gaii'ing  on  a  large  scale,  had 
seized  !\lrs.  Bowden.  "What  liad 
been  aU-snlVicient  wa'?  now  as  nothing 
to  licr  ;  and  as  her  mental  p,ras]>was 
not  broad,  nor  her  brain  remarkably 
bright  and  strong,  she  grew  ha^:gard 
and  haras;.;ed  over  the  ceaseless 
tlTurts  she  made  to  work  out  (thco- 
ntically)  infallibly  succe.s.'- ful  com- 
binations. Tho  occupations,  in- 
terests, and  pleasur<.>s  of  the  present 
were  all  poor  and  tame  to  lier  by 
comparis(m  with  tho.'^e  that  might 
fall  to  her  lot  in  the  future,  if  every- 
thing went  well.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  everything  went  ill,  she  might 
soon  be  reduced  to  such  a  position 
as  would  cause  her  present  neces- 
saries to  loom  before  her  regretful 
vision  in  tho  proportions  of  luxuries. 
Her  mind  was  much  disturbed  by 
these  opposite  possibilities,  yet  she 
had  not  the  courage  and  resolution 
to  free  herself  from  their  wearing 
influeui'e  by  'realizing,'  even  when 
she  might  have  done  so  atagreit 
gain.  Golden  dreams  always  led 
her  on.  Vague  fancy  beguiled  her 
int)  believing  that  tho  feeling  of 
unrest  would  pass  away  with  tho 
novelty.  She  began — being  essen- 
tially a  good-natured  woman — to 
worry  herself  as  to  the  way  in  which 
she  should  make  her  old  country 
friends,  with  their  rough  manners 
and  tones,  quite  at  home  and  at  their 
case  in  the  society  of  those  new  ones 
wiiich  her  gold  would  p,iim  her. 
Moreover,  slio  was  a  good  dial  dis- 
turbed about  Kllen.  Tho  girl  had 
been  left  behind  with  the  aunt,  who 
seemed  so  anxious  to  elTaco  all 
memory  of  her  longci^ntinued 
neglect  by  great  kindness  now  -left 
behind  with  this  aunt  very  much 
npainst  her  (Ellen's}  will.  ^liss 
I'owden  felt  miserably  dull  and 
awkwardly  out  of  place  at  first  in  tho 
grand  solitude  to  wlu'ch  ^Irs.  Sutton 
condemned  i.er  (lilhn)  while  she 
was  uncou'^ciously  undergoing  a  pro- 
cess of  polishing  thnt  was  to  len  ler 
her  a  more  useful  instrument  in 
Marian's  hands.  If  ^Irs.  Sutton  had 
pos.<^es:sed  any  princii»to  and  any 
honour,  she  would  not  have  Ixien  a 
bafl  companion  for  a  youncr,  un- 
formed country  girl.      As  it  was, 


I'llen  llovvden  insensibly  caught  a 
slight  relle  tiou  of  the  ])erfL'et  grace, 
the  i;nrunied  ea^e,  tho  smooth  i*e- 
fineraent  which  leavened  all  that 
Mrs.  S;itton  did  and  said.  Marian 
had  the  art  of  tellii;g  her  ])upil 
what  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  do 
without  addrcs-iing  her  directly.  It 
must  not  bu  understood  by  tliis 
sfafemcut  that  l\Irs.  Sutton  was 
guilty  of  the  vulgarity  of  talking  at 
her  guest.  But  she  had  a  way  of 
telling  Ellen  about  other  girls  who 
had  the  unmistikablo  htamp  of 
'gentlewoman'  upon  them  ;  and  .she 
would  put  in  the  salient  points  of 
their  manner  with  a  firm,  clear 
touch  or  two  that  was  not  lost  upon 
Ellen,  who  grow  more  uniformly 
quiet,  and  at  the  same  time  less  con- 
&train(  d. 

Anxious  as  jMr.  Sutton  had  been 
that  his  sister  and  her  family  should 
at  least  bo  known  to  and  kindly 
treated  by  his  wife,  he  had  not  gono 
with  the  latter  cordially  when  she 
proposed  that  Ellen  should  stay 
with  her  for  three  or  four  months. 
'  You  mean  it  so  kindly'  (he  always 
would  think  the  best  of  any  act  of 
IMarian's),  '  that  I  hardly  like  to 
throw  cold  water  on  your  plan ;  but 
I  can't  fancy  that  she  will  bo  tho 
better  for  the  eluinge,  or  much  of  a 
companion  for  you;  besides,  poor 
girl,  she  has  a  sweetheart  down 
there.' 

'  I  did  nican  it  for  tho  Ixjst.  How- 
ever, I  shall  say  nothing  more;  the 
onus  of  deciling  shall  ba  left  with 
her  mother  and  yon  now,  ]\Iark; 
but  I  am  sorry  you  should  show 
them  you  tliink  me  a  bad  companion 
for  the  girl.' 

After  that  jMr.  Sutton  ofllred  no 
opinion  on  the  .subject:  and  Mrs. 
Bowden  decided  that  l^lien  shoidd 
reuiain,  as  '  her  aunt  so  kindly  in- 
vited her.' 

After  that  little  period  of  proba- 
tion or  polishing,  Mis.  Sutton  gave 
her  young  charge  pli  nty  of  chaugo, 
plenty  of  gaiety,  plenty  of  opportu- 
nities of  forgetting;  John  Wilmot 
and  tho  vows  she  had  exchanged 
with  him.  But  a  counter-influence 
was  at  work,  of  which  I^lrs.  Sutton 
saw  and  suspected  nothing.  JNIark 
Sutton  never  gavo  his  niecoany  eaiv 
rings,  or  marvellous  bull-dresses— 


Playing  for  High  Stalces, 


861 


ho  left  all  that  for  IMarian  to  do,  and 
Marian  was  open-handed ;  but  lio 
gaTo  Ellen  somelliing  that  the  girl 
could  not  \w,\])  valuing  more  highly 
than  sbo  did  any  of  tlie  thin?:?.  Mrs. 
Sutton  lavished  upon  hei*.  His  gift 
was  a  good,  genuine,  uncalled-for 
opinion. 

'  So  you're  going  to  marry  young 
Wilmol-,  Elly  ?'  ho  said  to  her,  when 
he  was  alonu  with  her  the  iirst  even- 
ing of  her  stay  iu  his  house. 

'  Wo  both  mean  it  now,  I  believe, 
uncle,'  the  giil  replied,  blushing  a 
little. 

*  And  you  would  be  mightily  an- 
noyed if  he  was  the  first  not  to 
mean  it,  I  suppose?  Bat  I  would 
rather  see  you  keep  honest  of  the 
tivo.  Don't  make  mo  curse  the  at- 
mosphere of  my  Ijome,  Elly,  by  fee- 
ing you  change  in  it.  Try  to  keep 
firm  and  true:  don't  gut  falee  and 
fine  in  it,  child.' 

The  girl  looked  up  wonderingly 
as  he  stopped,  choked  by  a  sob.  He 
had  his  handkerchief  up  to  his  face, 
and  was  trying  to  cough  and  cover 
his  emotion,  and,  by  so  trying,  mak- 
ing it  much  more  apparent  to  the 
girl,  to  whom  it  revealed  many 
things  that  he  would  willingly  have 
concealed. 

'  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  disap- 
point you  in  that  way,  imcle,'  she 
said,  feelingly.  All  her  sympathies 
were  aroused  by  that  sudden  rent  in 
the  veil  which  habitually  fell  over 
Mr.  Sutton's  domestic  policy.  All 
her  sympatliies  were  aroused,  and 
yet  she  feared  to  betray  that  she  felt 
any  for  him,  or  rather  that  she  felt 
that  there  existed  cause  for  her  feel- 
ing any.  It  occurred  to  her,  with 
painful  force,  that  the  atmosph.ero 
of  his  home  must  have  been  l)ad  for 
some  one,  or  why  should  he  have 
warned  her  against  growing  'false 
and  fine.'  The  gracefid  lady  who 
ruled  his  household  and  shared  his 
name  was  fine  in  the  sense  that  a 
delicately  nurttu'ed  and  carefully 
tended  liov/er  is  so.  It  was  just 
probable  that  she  might  be  l^ilse 
also,  Ellen  thought,  as  she  looked  at 
the  grieved,  humiliated  expression 
which  came  like  a  cloud  over  Mr. 
Satton's  honest  open  face. 

So,  though  Miss  Bowden's  stay 
with  the  Suttons  was  prolonged  far 


beyond  the  original  term  of  the  in- 
vitation, she  was  not  dazzled  out  of 
her  allegiance  to  her  old  love,  but 
remained  for  several  months,  at 
least,  as  entirely  without  repioacli 
as  Mr.  John  Wilmot  was  without 
fear  on  her  behalf.  Mrs.  Sutton 
gave  her  plenty  of  amusement,  and 
the  girl  liked  it,  lor  ]\Iarian  had 
taken  her  niece's  measure  correctly, 
and  only  j^iped  such  airs  as  Ellen 
would  care  to  dance  to,  Mrs.  Sutton 
was  possessed  of  a  fine  tact,  that 
would  have  made  her  remarkable  in 
a  worthy  way  if  she  had  been  a  better 
woman.  As  it  was,  it  only  aided  in 
making  her  contemptible,  but  not 
contemptible  to  her  niece  yet.  In- 
deed, Ellen  Bowden  constructed 
rather  a  fine  character  for  Mrs. 
Sutton,  and  described  the  same  in 
warm  words  to  Mr.  John  Wilmot  in 
one  of  the  many  letteis  that  Marian 
was  much  too  judicious  to  remark 
upon.  If  the  girl  had  dared  to  do 
so,  if  she  had  not  feared  wounding 
the  kind  heart  that  so  evidently  pre- 
ferred feeding  upon  itself,  she  would 
liked  tohaA'e  given  her  uncle  the 
assurance  that  his  wife  never  strove 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  turn  her 
into  any  dubious  path.  But  after 
that  one  emphatic  caution  to  her 
Mark  Sutton  had  resolutely  held  his 
peace,  jmd  had  given  her  no  excuse 
for  touching  on  the  topic.  Accord- 
ingly Ellen  nursed  her  notions 
respecting  the  absolute  freedom  of 
her  will  in  secresy,  and  Mrs.  Sutton 
marked  the  girl's  sense  of  security 
in  her  own  integrity  of  purpose,  and 
took  care  not  to  disturb  it.  Mean- 
while Ellen  was  becoming  an  ardent 
student  of  coloirr  and  form,  and  an 
untiring  illustrator,  on  her  own  per- 
son, of  her  increase  of  knowledge  on 
such  matters,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  clever  dressmaker  to  whom 
Marian  owed  so  much,  iu  more  v.'ays 
than  one. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DOWN   AT  HALDON. 

Mr.  Lionel  Talbot's  picture  was 
hung  in  the  middle  room  in  such  a 
situation  that  it  could  be  seen  even 
on  the  first  of  May,  when  a  rap- 
turous sense  of  art  and  a  few  other 


3G2 


Playing  for  Uigh  Stalces. 


motives  iirfTPs  every  one  in  Lomlou 
to  go  to  tlu;  Iloyal  Academy.  '  Tlio 
Battlo  of  tlio  Hanls'  liad  been  re- 
jected ;  ami  '  Venus  on  Ilorsel '  was 
unfini-lied,  in  consL<iucuco  of  the 
artist  liavinp;  tiled  of  that  typo  of 
lx3auty,  since  the  day  the  daphne 
was  piclceil  up.  So  I\Ir.  Bathurst 
was  not  represented  at  that  year's 
c.xliibilion  — a  thing  lie  had  f;et  liis 
heart  upi)n  being.  The  <lipappoint- 
ment  may  seem  sb'glit  to  tho.so  who 
read  of  it ;  but  in  reality  it  was  strong 
enougli  to  make  him  take  a  tempo- 
rary di.sUkc  to  the  scenes  in  which  it 
had  come  upon  him.  and  the  haunts 
where  it  was  well  known.  lie 
wanted  to  go  into  the  country,  and 
lie  wanted  liiouel  to  go  with  him. 
lie  owned  a  place  away  in  a  far-off 
county — a  place  that  had  been  left 
to  him  by  old  Mr.  Lyon;  and  ho 
grew  eloquent  upon  its  delights  one 
evening  at  Edgar  Talbot's,  iiiter- 
sper.«ing  his  narrative  concerning  it 
with  soft  regrets  and  gentle  re- 
morses for  having  neglected  it  so 
long.  '  I  have  never  even  seen  it 
since  it  has  been  my  own,'  he  s  dd. 
'  Now  I  want  a  placo  to  hide  my 
diminished  head  in,  I  remember 
that  there  is  "  no  jilaco  like  homo.'" 
I  have  given  Lionel  a  ftdl  month  to 
go  and  study  the  works  of  his 
confemporaries— a  euphemism  fur 
going  day  after  day  and  gazing 
londly  at  his  own  j^ictures — even 
his  insatiable  vanity  must  be  satis- 
fied, KG  I  shall  drag  him  with 
me.' 

The  faces  of  all  his  auditors  un- 
derwent considerable  changes  of 
expression  as  he  spoke.  They  were 
still  — thongli  going  out  more  than 
they  had  done  at  first  — leading  a 
comparatively  quiet  life.  The  i)re- 
Kcnco  of  the>e  two  young  men  had 
come  to  bo  considered  the  brightest 
element  in  it. 

'  How  we  shall  raifs  you,  Lionel !' 
Beatrix  exclaimed,  quickly. 

'And  how  wo  shall  envy  you 
both!'  Blanche  Lyon  added,  has- 
tily. 

'  I  wish  some  one  would  drag  us 
all  away  for  a  week  or  ten  days,' 
Edgar  Tulltot  put  in,  wearily.  June 
came  fraught  to  him  with  no  I)reath 
of  roses  and  murmur  of  gurgling 
streams,  but  only  with  much  addi- 


tional dust  and  lassiludo.  'I  never 
felt  anything  like  the  heat  in  the 
city  to-day  ;  you  fellows  are  lucky 
to  be  able  to  get  out  of  it.' 

'  Lucky  imieed,  Mr.  Talbot.'  Mrs. 
Lyon  spoke  with  a  sort  of  ill-used 
tone — an  expression  of  being  do- 
barred  by  perverse  fate  from  all 
such  delights  as  the  country  in 
June. 

'  Why  can  you  not  all  come  and 
stay  with  us  ?'  Frank  B.ilhurst  asked 
animatidly  of  tho  whulo  group. 
'  Mi.ss  Talbot !  do  fay  you  would 
like  it;  your  roses  want  renovating. 
I  speak  as  an  artist,  not  as  a  man, 
you  know!  Get  your  brother  to 
agree  to  it;  tho  change  would  do 
tlifui  all  good— wouldn't  it,  Lionel?' 

'  I  hardly  kuov,-,'  Lionel  answered, 
abstractedly,  lie  had  caught  Miss 
Lyon's  eager,  hopeful  glance,  as  it 
rushed  out  to  scarcli  for  acquiescent 
looks.  '  I  t's  not  that  she  cares  much 
for  Frank's  society,'  he  thought; 
'  perhaps  she  wishes  to  see  the  placo 
of  which  she  might  have  been  mis- 
tress—of  which  sho  may  be  mistress 
still,  if  she  pleases.  Do  you  care  to 
go.  Miss  Lyon'r"  ho  asked  aloud, 
abruptly. 

She  bad  let  her  hands  and  her 
work  fall  into  her  hip,  in  the  excite- 
ment that  posscs.sed  her  while  Frank 
Bathurst  was  wording  his  invita- 
tion. She  could  not  succeed  in 
raising  them  and  going  on  imtrem- 
blingly  ;  so  she  put  her  work  on  tho 
table  and  rose  up,  saying — 

'  Care  to  go!  yes,  more  than  I  can 
say— if  the  whole  paity  can  go.  I 
don't  care  to  see  the  circle  broken — 
do  you,  Tri.xy ?' 

'Oh  no,  we  must  all  go,'  Trixy 
re))lied,  almost  unconscious  of  what 
she  was  saying,  by  reason  of  her 
thinking  at  the  same  time,  'She 
means  Frank.'  Simullaneou.sly  Ed- 
gar Tali)ot  was  thinking  'She  means 
me;'  and  Lionel  Wivs  thinking  her 
'  very  lovely.' 

'Talbot!  we  wait  your  decision,' 
l\Ir.  Bathurst  said,  anxiously.  '  Let 
us  go  all  down  and  take  possession 
of  llaldon  to-morrow;  or  Lionel  and 
1  wiiuld  go  to-morrow  and  ])r(  pare 
all  things  for  tho  rece]ition  of  the 
ladies  and  you  the  day  after;  say — 
shall  it  bij  soV 

'  Why,  we  are  going  to  the  Opera 


Planing  fur  High  SlaJces, 


163 


the  night  after,'  Mrs.  Lyon  sug- 
gested, in  accents  in  which  tlio 
mingling  of  many  feelings  might  bo 
detected.  Tiie  poor  lady  di.'^liked 
packing,  and  liked  l)eii]g  a  martyr, 
and  was  therefore  '  pleased,  yet  sad,' 
to  find  that  fate  had  again  inter- 
posed that  slight  ohstacle  the  Opera. 
But  Mr.  Talbot  swept  it  away :  it 
was  enough  for  him  that  Blanche 
wished  for  the  country,  and  wished 
for  his  presence  there.  She  should 
Lave  both, 

'  We  will  go  if  the  rest  like  the 
plan  as  well  as  I  do,'  he  said,  cheer- 
fully; and  after  that  there  was  no 
mistake  about  it.  Blanche  Lyon 
was  very  charming  and  kind  to  him 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Assur- 
ance as  to  her  having  no  other  in- 
terest than  himself  in  the  projected 
visit  was  made  doubly  sure  by  his 
saying  to  her,  *  "What  if  Trixy  should 
come  away  from  Haldon  pledged  to 
go  back  as  its  mistress  ?'  and  her  re- 
plying, '  I  hope  she  will — I  should 
like  it  of  all  things.' 

'  Eeally  ?'  he  asked,  fearchingly. 

'  Really  and  truly,'  she  answered, 
honestly  ;  '  it  is  one  of  the  dearest 
wishes  of  my  heart  that  my  cousin 
should  marry  your  sister.' 

'  "Will  you  hold  the  same  language 
when  you  have  seen  Haldon?' 

'  How  can  I  tell  V  I  shall  think 
the  same  thought — whether  or  not 
I  shall  word  it  so  is  more  than  I 
can  answer  for.' 

'  Don't  you  think  that  it's  just 
probable  that  you  may  regret  that 
you  did  not  follow  the  plan  old  Mr. 
Lyon  chalked  out  for  you?' 

She  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

'  Never — never  a  bit.  If  I  had 
done    so    I     should    never     have 

known '    She    almost  stopped, 

but  seemed  to  think  better  of  the 
weakness,  and  added  the  words  '  any 
of  you,'  blushing  warmly.  It  was  a 
very  unexpected  move  to  him  on  her 
part,  this  Irank  confession  that  in 
knowing  him  there  was  full  com- 
pensation for  any  loss  of  riches  and 
power.  An  unexpected — a  daring 
move.  He  had  always  heard,  and 
always  thought,  that  there  was 
something  unfeminine  in  a  girl 
meeting  a  man  half  way  in  a  decla- 
ration of  love.  But  now,  though  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  was  meeting 


him  half  way,  he  could  not  acciTf^c 
her  of  anything  imfeiDuiinc.  It 
made  his  heart  beat  higher  with  a 
better  hope  than  he  had  ever  known 
before,  this  thought,  that  in  a  few 
days  he  might  be  wandering  through 
some  sunlit  forest  glade  with  this 
lovely  woman  by  his  side,  and  no 
stern  necessity  for  going  into  the 
city  before  him.  He  almost  pitied 
Lionel  for  being  the  only  one  who 
would  be  witliout  a  special  object 
down  at  Haldon. 

The  following  morning, while  they 
were  busy  in  preparations  for  their 
ten  days'  stay  iu  the  country,  Mrs. 
Sutton  came  to  see  Trixy,  and  learnt 
the  move  that  was  to  be  made  the 
following  day.  The  two  girls,  Blanche 
and  Beatrix,  liad,  imeler  the  influ- 
ence of  the  sudden  excitement  of 
this  unexpecteel  break  in  their  rou- 
tine, come  to  rather  a  fairer  under- 
standing than  was  usual  with  them. 
It  had  flashed  upon  Trixy  with  an 
almost  blinding  light  that  Blanche 
was  trutlifal  in  the  sort  of  aficction- 
atc  indifference  she  professed  for 
Frank  Bathurst.  They  both  guarded 
their  respective  secrets  jealously; 
and  so  neither  liked  to  speak  openly 
to  the  other  about  that  which  was 
nearest  to  the  other's  heart.  Still, 
though  this  reserve  was  maintained, 
Blanche  had  spoken  of  her  cousin 
to  Miss  Talbot,  and  had,  in  a  way, 
seemed  to  withdraw  from  any  claim 
on  his  attention.  In  short,  Blanche 
had  perceived,  at  last,  that  her  frank 
friendliness  of  demeanour  towards 
her  cousin  was  being  misinterpreted 
by  Miss  Talbot  into  a  flirtation,  and 
that  this  misinterpretation  was  caus- 
ing Miss  Talbot  much  misery.  So 
she  hael  helel  aloof  from  Mr.  Ba- 
thurst, and  by  this  means  had  got 
much  nearer  to  Beatrix,  who  was 
consequently  ill-disposed  towards 
having  Miss  Lyon's  motives  and 
manners  underrated  by  Marian. 

*I  am  not  surprised  at  anything 
Edgar  does,'  Mrs.  Sutton  said, 
sweetly.  '  It  may  suit  lum  to  be 
considered  eccentric  -  madmen  never 
do  get  such  hard  measures  dealt  to 
themassane  ones  when  their  schemes 
fail  and  look  black ;  but  you !  what 
makes  you  anxious  to  adorn  Miss 
Lyou's  train  when  she  goes  hus- 
band-hunting ?' 


864 


PlayiiKj  for  High  Stalces, 


'  Really,  ^fnrian,  I  cannot  n^'nc  to 
such  tilings  being  saiil  of  lilanohe— 
you  quite  n)isju(lgc  licr.' 

'  Do  I?'  MiF.  Sutf(^n  rtplitil,  mi- 
niickfng  lior  sister's  carncstnc-s. 
*  Pcrlinps  I  niisjuflgid  hur  wlicii  I 
found  licr  flirting  vio'ontly  with  my 
Inishand  in  the  Grange  garden? — 
at-kiug  liim  "  to  take  licr  part 
ngaiust  his  wife,"  tmd  fooling  bira 
because  there  was  no  one  el.-ic  to 
fool.' 

'  I  can't  believe  it  of  her.' 

'  Well,  dear,'  Mrs.  Sutton  said, 
pathetically, '  I  only  hope  tliat  when 
you  have  a  husband  she  won't  quite 
poison  his  mind  against  you ;  but 
tho.^o  frank  women  who  express 
the  liking  they  have  so  very  oi)enly, 
that  "  there  can  bo  no  guile  in  it," 
innocents  think,  —  don't  I  know 
them  well?  are  they  not  dangeious? 
Frank  F-athurst  is  just  a  bit  of  wax 
in  her  hands,  to  be  moulded  as  she 
pleases.' 

'  Why  take  any  interest  in  them, 
when  you  think  so  badly  of  theiu 
both  ?'  Trixy  urged,  bitterly.  Mrs. 
Sutton  had  made  the  girl's  heart 
ache  again  with  the  hardest  ache 
the  human  heart  can  know — doubt 
of  the  one  loved. 

'  Jly  iu'.crestis  vicarious:  jouaro 
my  sister,  and  I  don't  want  to  see 
you  left  in  tijc  lurch  cither  ns  .Miss 
Talbot  or  ^Irs.  liathurst,  through 
Blanche  Lyon's  machinations.  I 
shall  never  forget  what  I  felt  that 
day  when  I  heard  her  talking  so 
Bharcefully  of  me  to  Mark— actually 
tradufiiig  mo  to  my  ovn  hu.'b;ind!' 
(Mr.s.  Sutton  improved  this  episode, 
it  may  bo  mentioned,  ea<'h  time  she 
reverted  to  it.)  'Think  what  it 
would  have  been,  Trixy,  if  I  had 
marrie<l  liira  for  love !' 

*  I  really  can't  think,  Marian,' 
Trixy  said,  deji  otcdiy.  '  I  am  ijuito 
iired  of  thinking  about  it;  and  let 
her  take  Jlr.  IJalhurst  in  Ileavcn's 
name,' she  added,  suddenly ;  '  I  want 
none  of  them.' 

'  Exalted  sentiment  that  jou  will 
desert,  it  strikes  me,  if  "  oiio  ot 
them  ■'  wants  you,  Trixy ;  if  I  were 
you  I  would  just  bear  in  mind  what 
I  said  to  you  once  a1>out  men  with 
those  heaNeidy  blue  eyes  and  tin  ir 
powers  of  fulling  in  love  with  every 
loYcablo  earthly  creature  they  meet, 


accept  the  fact,  marry  him,  and  make 
the  best  of  it !' 

'  Perhaps  I  should,  if  I  were  you,' 
Trixy  replied,  and  then  Mrs.  Sutton 
g.'t  up  to  go  away,  remarking 
swt  etiy,  that,  *  It  was  no  wonder 
Tiixy  got  cross  about  it — why 
didn't  she  make  a  stand  again.st  that 
Ly  >n  coinpaniou.ship  at  once  and 
for  ever!' 

•  liecau.se  I  have  nothing  to  say 
agaifist  her,'  Trixy  answered,  pluck- 
ing up  a  small  spirit  at  Starting; 
'  because  I  really  do  like  her  very 
much— so  much  that  I  hato  to  hate 
her  as  you  always  succeed  in  mak- 
ing me,  ]Marian,  and — como  now  — 
because  I  think  she  likes  my  bro- 
ther as  well  as  he  likes  her.' 

'  Then,  good-bye,'  Mrs.  Sutton  re- 
plied, with  a  shrug  and  a  smile; 
'  a^k  mo  to  Jbildou  in  the  autumn, 
and  get  Mr.  Bathuist  to  concentrate 
his  energies  on  another  picture,  that 
it  may  he  ready  to  he  rejected  next 
year,  while  I  am  there ;  his  atten- 
tion.s  rather  boio  mo,  good-bye — 
come  back  with  brighter  roses  in 
your  cheoka,  Trixy— pallor  makes 
you  look  old.' 

So  they  kissed  and  parted. 

jMeautimo,  while  Jfis  Sutton  was 
kindly  employed  in  making  things 
plea'^ant  by  her  sympathy  and  sis- 
terly advice  to  r.(  atrix,  ^Ir.  Eat  hurst 
and  Lionel  Talbot  were  on  their 
way  to  llaldon.  It  was  not  an 
eventful  journey,  therefore  the 
events  of  it  uieel  not  be  chronicled. 
For  the  first  hour  of  the  journey 
the  two  men  amused  themselves 
over  '  Fundi '  and  tiie  morning 
papers.  Then  they  tried  to  talk  to 
each  other,  and  failed  hy  reuson  of 
having  nothing  particular  to  say, 
and  each  having  mucli  to  think 
about;  then  tliey  tried  to  sleep— a 
futile  pri)ceeding  on  a  bright,  clear 
Jimo  morning.  Then  they  reached 
Swindon,  and  cliangcd  into  a  carriage 
where  they  were  free  to  smoke  and 
be  happy  for  tho  remainder  of  the 
journey.  At  six  o'clock  in  tho 
evening  they  ran  into  the  station 
that  was  the  nearest  to  llaldon  ;  and 
at  half- past  seven  u  fly,  procured 
from  th.i*^  station,  runiMed  up  to 
tho  entraiicijdoor  of  llaldon  House. 

It  wa.s  a  hf)UPe  that,  at  lust  sight, 
seemed  wanting  in  compari.sou  with 


Pkujing  for  High  Stakes. 


n5 


the  grounds  throtigli  whicli  they 
had  driven  to  gain  it.  The  broad 
stone-bastioned  gates,  surmounted 
by  the  Lyons'  citst,  a  baud  holding 
a  hatchet,  admitted  them  into  a 
wide  turf-bordered  drive.  Far  back 
on  either  ^ide  thick  woods  un- 
dulated up  and  down  the  Jul  Is 
through  which  the  drive  was  deftly 
made  to  turn  and  bend  in  a  way 
that  deceived  the  stranger  as  lo  the 
extent  of  the  park  in  the  most 
honourable  and  picturesque  manuer. 
Gradually  this  drive  lost  its  open 
character  ;  the  woods  on  either  side 
thickened  and  contracted  them- 
selves upon  it,  and  presently  it  took 
a  bold  turn  round  a  ])i'ecipitous 
bank,  down  the  slope  rM  which  an 
impetuous  little  rill  gurgled,  and 
passed  vmder,  along  up  to  the  prin- 
cipal front  of  the  house,  between 
two  fine  rows  of  beech-trees,  through 
whose  foliage  the  sinking  sun  had 
a  hard  struggle  to  cast  even  so 
much  as  the  reflection  of  one  ruddy 
ray  upon  the  ground. 

The  chiel  front  was  not  imposing. 
The  entrance  door  was  a  sm:ill 
Gothic  mistake  in  tho  flat,  plain, 
grey  surface  of  that  side  of  the 
house.  The  windows  were  narrow 
and  unornamented,  and  there  was 
nothing  but  arid  gravel  immediately 
ruider  them.  From  the  right  tnd 
of  the  house  a  rolling  sweep  of 
lawn  led  the  eye  away  to  a  silver 
lake,  whose  banks  were  fringed 
heavily  with  a  great  variety  of 
flowering  shrubs  and  drooping  trees, 
every  graceful  twig  and  flower  of 
which  was  reflected  vividly  in  the 
limpid  water  below.  To  the  left, 
a'  high- wall,  running  out  straight 
from  the  house  to  a  length  of  about 
one  hundred  feet,  enclosed  the  fruit 
and  vegetables.  And  farther  away 
still,  on  the  same  side,  a  winding 
path,  bordered  with  blocks  of  stone 
and  huge  trunks  of  trees,  wliose 
rugged  surfaces  were  rendered  beau- 
tiful by  being  covered  with  creeping 
plants,  led  away  to  the  stables  and 
out-buildings.  In  spite  of  that 
severely  plain,  sombre-looking  front, 
there  was  both  beauty  and  grandeur 
in  this  house,  to  which  Mr.  Bathurst 
brought  his  friend  for  the  first 
time — the  house  that  might  have 
been  Blanche  Lyon's. 


He  bad  never  been  to  Haldon 
since  it  had  been  his  own,  and  now 
he  was  surprised  to  find  liow  dif- 
ferent an  aspect  it  assumed  to  that 
it  had  ever  had  before.  Tiie  sense 
of  possession  brought  out  all  his 
powers  of  appreciation  as  ho  drove 
along  the  avenue  and  finally  stopped 
at  the  door.  Feeling  elated,  it  was 
only  natural  to  Frank  Bathurst  to 
give  voice  to  his  elation.  '  I  wish 
1  had  let  you  come  alone  to  prepare 
for  them,  Lionel,'  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  got  out  and  turned  his  eyes  on 
the  lake.  *  I  should  like  to  have 
come  down  with  them,  I  should 
like  to  see  what  they  will  think  of 
it  all  as  they  come  ui).' 

'  Can't  you  do  that  as  it  is  ?  Go 
to  meet  them,'  Lionel  suggested. 

'  No,  no,  that  won't  do ;  I  should 
have  to  go  in  a  station  cib — an  ig- 
nominious way  of  going  out  to  wel- 
come them.'  Then  the  door  was 
opened,  and  their  portmanteaus  and 
themselves  taken  into  the  hall ;  a 
small  baud  of  much-startled  ser- 
vants, headed  by  a  housekeeper  who 
would  have  felt  more  pleasure  at 
the  sight  of  them  if  she  had  been 
prepared  for  it,  came  to  meet  them. 

'  The  serfs  are  not  glad  through 
Lara's  wide  domain,'  Frank  Bathurst 
said,  laugliing,  as  be  went  with 
Lionel  into  a  room  that  the  house- 
keeper declared  to  be  the  only  one 
fit  for  use.  '  It  will  do  very  well,' 
he  added,  turning  to  that  potentate. 
'  Mr.  Talbot  and  I  want  nothing 
better  until  to-morrow  ;  io-morrow 
we  have  a  large  party  coming  down, 
and  then  I  should  hke  the  house  to 
be  in  order.' 

This  expression  of  his  hopes 
brought  a  terribly  long  explanation 
upon  him ;  but  Frank  Bathurst  was 
one  of  those  good-natured  men  who 
can  listen  to  an  'o'er-longtale'  with 
a  smile  and  a  certain  air  of  interest, 
even  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Kennet  had 
few  servants,  as  he  knew ;  the  estab- 
lishment had  been  greatly  reduced 
at  her  old  master's  death.  '  It  was 
fortunate— she  would  venture  to  say 
that  it  was  very  fortunate—that  she 
should  happen  to  have  her  sister  in 
the  bouse  just  at  present :  her  sister 
had  lived  cook  in  more  than  one 
place  where  they  was  that  particular 
that  she  saw  no  fear  of  the  dinners 


366 


Playing  for  High  SlaJccs. 


being  satls'actov.v.'  Then  another 
fortnnito  fact  nitilc  itself  known — 
her  '  Kister's  husluiid  dianccJ  to  bo 
thcro  too— aiii  (a  still  more  pro- 
vidential circniustanco)  he  chanced 
to  bo  a  bntlcr  out  of  place.'  In 
fact,  Inck  Fcemed  to  bo  very  mnch 
in  Mr.  Bathnr.sl's  path,  for  tliough 
ho  had  coino  down  without  note  of 
warning,  fa*o  was  on  hi.s  side; 
tho  two  daughters  of  Mrs.  Keiinet's 
sister,  both  of  them  hoii^scmaids, 
both,  by  a  strange  freak  of  fortune, 
out  of  place,  both  pearls  of  great 
price,  wcro  '  hero  in  the  very  hou-'c, 
and  might,  no  doubt,  bo  persuaded 
to  remain' 

Indeed,  tho  whole  family  were  per- 
suaded to  remain,  and  Mv.  Bathurst 
had  every  reason  to  take  them  at 
their  relative's  valuation,  and  bo 
grateful  for  the  boon  of  their  services. 
Hukbm  was  quite  far  enough  re- 
moved from  every  other  linman 
habitation  lor  an  unexpected  raid, 
such  as  its  owner  had  made  upon  it, 
to  bo  an  inconvenience— more  than 
that,  a  dilliculty — to  tho  one  who 
had  to  cater  for  hira.  Mrs.  Kennet 
was  too  replete  with  dignified  ficnso 
of  lier  own  un3|)ottcd  character  as  a 
manager,  to  make  a  sign  that  might 
indicate  a  doubt  bcfjre  her  young 
master.  After  putting  the  state  of 
tiie  household  bcforehim  iinuartially, 
and  making  him  feel  tho  full  force  of 
the  obligation  ho  owed  to  fato  and 
!ier  family  for  the  latter  being  there 
—she  retired  to  bestir  her  inventive 
faculties  about  a  dinner  for  the  two 
tired  traveller.^.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  her  master  to  say  'anything  will 
do  for  us  to-jiight,  Mrs.  Kennet;' 
but  this  was  Wednesday,  and  sho 
had  nothing  in  the  house  for  hira, 
an'l  if  .she  Kent  to  tho  village  (two 
miles  oiT)  she  could  not  count  on 
getting  any  fresh  meat.  There  was 
nothing  fn*  it  Imt  to  rise  to  the  oc- 
casion, and  heroically  ."Jacrifice  the 
supper  she  iiad  designed  tor  her.'-elf 
and  her  friends  to  t!io  hungry,  un- 
welcome, and  unexpected  ones.  This 
being  tho  ca^^o,  it  is  small  wonder 
that  both  Mr.3.  Kennet  and  her 
bitter,  who  had  to  cwk  it  now  in 
another  way  for  other  lip-i,  should 
have  lost  their  tempers  over  the 
chicken  and  rabbit  they  respective  ly 
roasted  and    curried— or  that  the 


bntlcr  phonld  have  fighcl  over  tho 
vanity  of  cavtldy  hijpes  as  ho  was 
ordered  away  to  tho  land-bailiCTs 
liouse  to  fetidi  tho  key  of  tlie  cellar, 
in  order  that  tho  viands  \vhi(di  had 
been  designed  for  him  nii^dit  bo  • 
washed  down  with  generous 
draughts  of  wine  by  his  master. 

'  They  will  have  to  worlc  to  get  the 
place  as  I  menn  it  to  he  by  to-morrow 
night,  won't  they?'  Frank  Bathurst 
paid  to  Lionel,  as  they  strolled  about 
from  room  to  room,  and  marked  the 
desolation  and  decay  that  had  como 
over  everything.  'The  lil)rary'8 
good,'  ho  continued,  opening  the 
door  of  a  dark,  ('iuely-pniportinned 
room  that  was  literally  lined  from 
flo(jr  to  ceiling  with  books  ;  '  but  it's 
too  dull  to  venture  in  tonight, 
there's  a  small  attempt  at  an  ances- 
tral portrait  gallery  in  the  corridors; 
shall  we  go  and  look  at  it,  and  see  if 
Blanche  is  like  any  of  them?' 

'If  you  like,'  Lionel  answered, 
turning  round  sharply,  and  com- 
mencing the  ascent  of  tho  .stairs  at 
once.  Mr.  Bathurst  followed  more 
slowly,  still  talking. 

'I  wonder  wdiat  she  will  think  ot 
it  all,  Lai"?  it  will  bo  queer  for  her 
to  come  here  and  feel  that  she  might 
have  had  it  all  ifslic  hadn't  been  such 
a  chivalrous  liltlo  thing  that  sho 
couldn't  stoop  to  .'■eoni  to  fawn  and 
flatter  tho  |)Oor  old  fellow.  Not  much 
—  these  pictures,  are  they  ?  nn'ght  be 
better  lighted  too,  eh'.-'  Every  one  of 
them  got  in  \Vardour  Street,'  lie 
continued,  lounging  along  in  front 
of  them  with  hi.s  hands  in  his  pocket.s, 
giving  a  careless  glance  at  each  as 
ho  pa'-.^ed;  '  it's  utterly  impossible 
that  Lcly  could  have  piinted  every 
one's  grcat-gnat-grnndniother,  you 
know  ;  no,  not  one  of  them  a  bit  like 
Blanche.  I  shall  get  her  to  sit  to 
me  when  she  comes  down,  and  give 
her  portrait  the  place  of  lionour  in 
the  gallery;  in  fact,  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  clear  out  all  tlu.so  and  liang 
the  Haltleof  the  Bards  here— fill  tho 
gallery  with  my  own  works.  I'm 
not  a  Lyon,  so  I'm  not  bound  to 
respect  these  shams  ;  I'll  hear  what 
Bliinche  fays  about  it.' 

'  .She  will  weed  out  a  few  of  them 
Avillingly,  I  fancy,'  Lionel  replied, 
when  Frank  Bathurst  ccxsed 
speaking  at  last;  '  but  only  trauspa- 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


867 


rent  shams— any  tliat  arc  good  .slic 
will  jj;ivc  tho  bcnufit  of  tlio  doubt.' 

'  That's  a  good  pose,'  Frank  said, 
suddenly  stopping  before  tlio  por- 
trait of  a  liidy,  and  then  stepping 
back  to  get  a  better  b'ght  on  it. 
'Look,  Lai!  there  is  something  in 
that ! — three  blues— fillet,  dress,  and 
shawl  all  different  shades — yet  har- 
monising perfectly;  I  should  like 
Blanche  to  sit  to  nie  in  such  a  velvet 
dress.  Why,  she  has  a  bit  of  daphne 
in  her  hand !' 

'  And  what  of  it  ?'  Lionel  asked, 
inditftxcntly.  Ho  thought  the 
picture  superb  in  colouring  and 
composition ;  but  he  was  tired  of 
hearing  Mr.  Bathurst's  artistic  plans 
relative  to  '  Blanche,'  and  the  daphne 
said  nothing  to  him. 

'  It's  about  tho  most  extraordinary 
coincidence  I  ever  heard  of,'  Frank 
muttered,  as  he  tore  himself  away 
from  the  contemplation  of  the 
picture  at  last.  Then  he  went  on  to 
wonder  what  Blanche  would  think 
when  he  showed  her  the  picture,  and 
her  bright  glance  fell  on  the  flower 
the  lady  held.  Would  it  speak 
touchingly,  thrillingly  to  her,  as  it 
did  to  him?  Tiicn  there  darted 
through  his  mind  a  conviction  that 
everything  was  tending  towards  the 
desirable  end  of  Miss  Lyon  having 
what  would  have  been  her  own  if 
she  had  not  been  obstinate.  He — 
vhe  happy  possessor— was  magnani- 
mously ready  to  love  and  marry  the 
woman  who  pleased  his  taste  better 
than  any  other  whom  he  had  ever 
Been.  She,  judging  from  the  dnphno 
incident,  was  equally  ready  to  love 
and  marry  him.  Even  the  weather 
seemed  likely  to  favour  the  wooing 
— how  could  the  latter  but  speed 
fast  and  favourably  in  such  leafy 
glades  as  were  around  on  every  side, 
under  the  clear  blue  sky  and  the 
warm,  bright  sun  of  Juno  ? 

So  he  thought,  as  he  walked  lightly 
along,  whistling  a  waltz,  to  join 
Lionel,  who  was  standing  looking 
rather  dull  at  the  end  v/indow.  It 
struck  Mr.  Fiank  Bathurst  as  he 
came  up  that  there  was  something 
rather  inconsiderate  and  ill-timed  in 
Lionel  looking  dull  or  feeling  dull, 
when  ho  (Frank)  was  just  realizing 
how  very  happy  and  prosperous  ho 
was.    The  view  of  his  own  pleasant 


lands — tho  prospect  of  his  own 
future  bliss— tho  thought  of  the  rich 
reward  ho  was  contemplating  be- 
stowing upon  worthy  beauty — were 
one  and  all  such  enlivening  conside- 
rations that  he  felt  Lionel  to  bo 
wanting,  in  that  he  remained  unin- 
fluenced by  them.  A  friend  who 
showed  himself  slow  to  rejoice, 
wliether  he  saw  cause  for  it  or  not, 
when  Mr.  Frank  Bathurst  rejoiced, 
was  not  a  friend  exactly  after  Mr. 
Frank  Bathurst's  heart.  '  What's 
the  matter  with  you,  Lai  ?'  he  asked, 
languidly,  as  Lionel  continued  to 
gaze  gloomily  out  of  the  windov/ ; 
'are  you  thinking  that  this  part  of 
the  country  will  do  as  Avell  as  Wales 
for  tho  sketching  tour  in  August? 
I  am.'  - 

'  No,'  Lionel  replied ; '  I  was  think- 
ing that  perhaps  wo  all  work  the 
same  mine,  rich  as  it  is,  too  freely  ; 
I  shall  leave  Wales  to  men  who  have 
something  to  tie  them  near  home, 
and  go  to  Algeria.' 

'  Has  anything  gone  wrong  with 
you,  Lai  ?'  asked  Mr.  Bathurst,  with 
a  wistful  look  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  a 
most  unusual  hesitation  in  his  tones. 
But  Lionel  shook  his  head,  and 
laughed  so  cheerily  at  tho  supposi- 
tion, and  met  Frank's  wistful  eyes  so 
dauntltssly,  that  BIr.  Bathurst  (.was 
quite  reassured.  '  Let  us  go  down 
by  the  lake,  and  smoke  a  cigar  in  the 
moonlight,'  the  master  of  Haldon 
said,  taking  his  guest  by  the  arm 
and  leading  him  back  along  the 
corridor ;  '  you  frightened  me  for  a 
minute,  Lai,  by  talking  of  Algeria; 
whatever  conies  to  me,  old  boy,  I 
can't  spare  you.' 

Then  they  neither  of  tliem  sj^oke 
again  for  some  time,  not  indeed  until 
they  had  reached  the  border  of  tho 
lake  and  sent  up  sereral  light 
wreaths  of  smoke.  Then  Lionel 
Talbot  looked  back  at  the  massive 
pile,  tho  finest  side  of  which  fronted 
them  now,  and  said — 

'  Whatever  the  autumn  sees  me 
doing,Frank,  you  ought  to  give  up 
roaming ;  such  a  place  as  this  de- 
serves to  be  inhabited.' 

'  Ye — es,'  Frank  answered,  lazily. 
The  rippling  lake  at  his  feet,  the 
star-studded  sl;y,  the  beauty  of  tho 
moon- lighted  scenery  around,  were 
all  sheddirfg  their  soft    influences 


368 


Playing  for  lU'ih  SlaJcPS. 


upon  liiin.  ITis  memories  of  bysouo 
(lays  aiul  iii;:;lits  under  Boutiiorn 
fikies,  l)y  lovelier  lakes,  weredna-iiily 
reawaken ine;.  It  wa-^  pleasant  to 
him  to  tliiiiA  anil  rcmeml)er  ;  so  lie 
went  on  thinkin.i:;  and  renieml)oring, 
and  paying  no  maimer  of  hie  1  to 
Liiiuul's  sngpi'stivo  speccli.  It 
was  only  one  form— a  harmless  one 
-of  his  piy  selfidmess  to  ho  rather 
inattentiv.i  to  anythin.t!:  that  did  not 
interest  him  at  the  moment. 

'  Who  was  the  fellow  who  wroto 
Fomcthiug  about  a  lake?'  he  asked, 
presently. 

'Several  follows  have  written 
mmething  about  n  lake,'  Lionel 
answered,  laup;liing;  and  Frank  with- 
drew his  cigar  from  his  lips  for  a 
moment,  anil  said,  as  he  sent  many 
l)orfeet  rings  of  smoke  eircling  away 
mto  the  air, '  I  meant  Moore.  I  was 
thinking  of — 

"  Dy  tliat  lake,  whose  gloomy  shore 
Skylark  never  warbles  o'er," 

and  congratulating  myself  upon  rny 
lake  iieing  so  much  more  congenial 
to  my  temi)eraraent.'  Then  he 
strolled  on  a  few  yanls  into  a  broader 
moonbeam,  and  went  on  to  remark 
upon  the  fact  of  its  buing  a  'small 
wonder  that  the  one  for  whom 
Mariana  was  aweary  should  have 
kept  her  waiting  so  long,  ^inco 
T(;imyson  choso  to  plant  her  in  a 
house'  where  mieo  shrieked  in 
mouldering  wainscots,  and  rusted 
nails  and  broken  sheds  and  other 
marks  of  desolation  and  decay 
abounded.' 

'It's just  pos5:iblc  that  Mariana 
might  have  been  worth  Iho  braving 
all  those  disngrecablo  sights,'  Lionel 
eaid,  pursuing  the  fancitul  theme. 

'No,  no;  tlio  mistress  of  the 
Moated  firangc  must  have  been  an 
untidy  woman  — a  sort  of  Jliss  Havi- 
shani  wiliiout  the  Estella;  that  sort 
of  thing  must  have  gone  on  for 
many  years  too,  or  the  i)iace  couldn't 
hivc  pot  into  such  a  state— an  old 
Mariana  witli  her  cheeks  fallen  in 
and  her  hair  thin,  and  a  general  air 
(i!  ilowdiiiess  about  her, by  na^-onof 
her  dross  being  old-fashione  I ;  that's 
what  it  would  Ixs,  if  one  realize  I  the 
subject  properly  and  painted  it.' 

'Don't/  Lionel  ropliul. 

'  Well,  I'm  not  likely  to/  Frank 


f-aid  ;  tiien  ho  added,  rather  ineonse- 
qiieiitly,  '  Imt  I  was  looking  at  that 
ill  tie  i-;land  there,  and  thinking  what 
a  jolly  sort  of  prison  tho  Lady  of 
Slialot  had — 

"  Four  groy  walls  anil  four  grey  lowers 
Overlook  a  fpic^  of  llnwers, 
Ami  ihj  siU-iit  isle  ciiib.iwers 
The  Laily  ofbhalol." 

There  wo  have  it  all.  That  laurel 
rises  bke  a  tower  in  tho  island.  All 
wc  want ' 

'  Is  the  lady/   Lionel  interrupted. 

'And  wo  shall  have  her  to-mor- 
row night,'  Franic  replied;  ho  was 
thinking  indirfeiv  ntly  of  bolli  the 
beautiful  women  wlio  were  coming. 
But  Lionel  fancied  that  his  friend 
thought  only  of  Blanche.  Perhaps  it 
was  that  his  fraternal  [)ride  was 
jealous  about  Beatrix.  At  any  rate, 
ho  made  no  response  to  Frank's 
remark  about  liev  being  there  to 
complete  tho  pictuio  to-iuorrow 
night;  and  so  the  convei.sation 
llagged,  and  they  soon  felt  that  it 
would  be  well  to  go  in. 

'To-morrow  night  she  will  bo 
here.'  This  was  the  text  on  which 
Lionel  Talbot  preached  a  brief,  I>it- 
ter  little  sermon  to  himself,  as  he 
stood  at  his  bedroom  window  looking 
out  over  Fronk  Batliursfs  lawn  and 
lake.  '  To-morrow  night  she  will 
bo  here;  f;he,  with  her  keen  eye  for 
tho  lieauliful,  will  bo  glancing  over 
glade  and  alley,  terrace  and  turf, 
lake  and  island;  all  will  bo  spref.d 
out  before  her,  and  she  will  renieui- 
bor  that  all  might  havo  been  her 
own  and  then,  naturally,  she  l)cing 
a  woman,  her  heart  will  warm  to 
the  man  s-ho  has  benefited ;  and 
the  thought  will  ariso  that  it  may 
be  hers  still,  and  by  the  time  the 
thought  and  the  wisli  and  iho  lovo 
slie'll  soon  feel  for  him  are  realized 
—well,  I  shall  bo  in  Algeria.' 

It  wearied,  worried,  tantalized, 
and  perplexed  him  through  all  tho 
vii-ions  of  the  night.  '  To-morrow 
night  she  will  be  here/  that  bright, 
bravo,  lieautiful,  young  gentle- 
woman born,  who  had  carried  on  Iho 
wearing  f-trife  so  gallantly,  whcj  had 
never  liiuched  at  jiovcrty,  and  to 
whom  it  would  now  roino  pl(  asuntly 
and  easily  to  bo  rich  and  liaj)])y  at 
one  stroke!     It  teemed  to  Lionel 


Playing  for  High,  SiaJces. 


369 


Talbot  that  Frank  was  just  the  man 
to  win  any  untouched  heart.  'He 
had  pretty  well  fathomed  poor 
Tvixy's  feelings  on  the  subject,  but 
Blanche's  were  beyond  him.  Love 
was  often  born  of  expediency,  he  re- 
flected. On  the  other  hand,  Blanche 
was  scarcely  the  sort  of  woman  to 
create  a  sentiment  out  of  an- obliga- 
tion. '  God  bless  her !  however  it 
goes,'  ho  thought,  as  the  grey  dawn 
chased  the  languid  June  night 
away ;  and  he  lell  asleep  from  sheer 
weariness. 

Frank  had  remained  awake  a  very 
little  time,  thinking  so  aflfably  and 
kindly  of  every  one  of  whom  he 
thought  at  all.  He  was  delighted 
with  himself,  for  instance,  for  having 
thought  of  coming  down  and  of  col- 
lecting such  a  pleasant  party  as  it 
promised  to  be.  He  was  enchanted 
with  Haldon!  Of  old  it  had  never 
possessed  half  the  charm  and  im- 
portance it  now  held  for  him.  He 
had  often  suspected  that  there  was 
a  rich  vein  of  humbug  in  that 
phrase  that  'the  poor  man  who 
walks  through  a  beautiful  park  has 
as  much  pleasure  in  the  same  as 
the  noble  lord  who  owns  it.'  Now  his 
suspicions  were  verified,  and  he  was 
very  sure,  from  the  most  agreeable 
experience,  that  he  preferred  being 
the  noble  lord.  He  was  satisfied 
with  Mrs.  Kennet,  and  with  his  good 
fortune  in  coming  into  undisputed 
possession  of  such  excellent  ser- 
vants, and  with  the  prospect  of  the 
companionship  of  the  twagirls  who 
were  coming  th  fallowing  day,  and 
with  his  own  iatentions  respecting 
one  of  them,  and  with  everything, 
indeed,  save  Lionel  Talbot's  resolve 
to  go  to  Algeria. 

'That  won't  do  at  all,'  he  m^^t- 
(Aered,  sleepily ;  '  we  must  all  talk 
him  out  of  that.'  Here  his  amiable 
intentions  grew  vague  and  unde- 
fined, and  he  slept  the  slejp  that 
waits  on  sound  digestion  and  an  un- 
troubled conscience. 

The  empire  of  the  night  was  peace 
down  at  Haldon,  but  up  in  Victoria 
Street  it  was  tribulation  and  woe 
for  one  of  the  members  of  one  house- 
hold. Edgar  Talbot  had  been  at 
home  the  greater  part  of  the  day. 
It  was  astonishing,  he  said  himself, 
how  greatly  the  necessity  lessened 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  LXIV. 


for  being  present  at  the  centre  of 
business  action  wlicn  a  man  de- 
cided upon  putting  himself  beyond 
the  possilnlity  of  attending  it  for 
some  time.  He  had  been  happy 
and  cheerful  and  'young,'  Trixy 
declare),  during  the  whole  of  the 
day  Very  much  to  their  surprise, 
he  had  attended  the  two  girls  on  a 
little  shopping  expedition  thuy 
made,  and,  still  more  to  his  own 
surprise,  he  found  himself  liking  it, 
for,!  Blanche  Lyon  consulted  his  taste 
several  times,  declaring  that  Mr. 
Lionel  Talbot's  brother  must  know 
better  than  she  did  which  colour 
would  go  well  with  another.  It  was 
very  flattering  to  him,  Edgar  Talbot 
felt,  that  Blanche  should  think  so 
highly  of  his  brother.  It  made 
him  thin'c  more  kindly  than  ever  of 
Lionel,  and  he  always  had  thought 
kindly  of  and  been  affectionately 
disposed  towards  Lionel,  be  it  re- 
membered. He  bought  his  sister  a 
wonderful  hat  to  wear  down  at 
Haldon,  and  exchanged  significant 
glances  with  Blanche  when  the 
latter  said  that  '  it  was  ju.st  the 
shaped  hat  Frank  liked— no  feather 
tumbling  over  the  brim  to  ppoil  that 
perfect  outline.'  Then  he  had  gone 
gaily  home  with  them  rather  earlier 
than  he  wished,  because  they  both 
declared  that  they  had  a  great  deal 
of  packing  to  do,  which  must  be 
done  by  daylight.  '  You  don't  con- 
sider what  time  muslins  take,.  Mr. 
Talbot,'  Blanche  said  to  him,  with  a 
laugh,  when  he  pleaded  that  they 
'  should  go  into  the  park  now.' 
'  There's  a  sad  want  of  proportion 
between  the  dresses  we  are  going  to 
take  and  the  trunks  we  are  going  to 
put  them  in.' 

'  Why  not  go  just  as  you  are — you 
couldii't  look  nicer — and  not  trouble 
yourselves  about  packing?'  he  said, 
looking  at  their  clear,  crisp  muslin 
robes. 

'  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  mighty 
efforts  are  requisite  to  obtain  even 
such  small  results.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  answer  for  the  effect  on  Mr. 
Bathurst's  nerves  if  we  appeared 
before  him  to-morrow  in  the  damp 
of  the  evening  in  these  dresses  that 
now  strike  you  as  all-sufficient  for 
the  whole  time  of  our  stay.  No,  we 
must  go  home.' 

2    B 


370 


Clianije». 


Acrordinply  bo  went  with  tbcm, 
Dnd  founM  Mr.  Sutton  waitint:  for 
liim  ill  ft  little  rooin  with  ii  window 
ill  the  roof,  thiit  was  dniicated  to 
Imsiiuss  iutirviews.  One  glaiico  at 
Lis  hrotl  cr-in- law's  face  showtd 
Kdgnr  Tall>ot  that  there  was  some- 
tliin^?  wrong. 

•  Yon  have  got  rid  of  those ?' 

^Fr.  Sutton  said,  interrogatively, 
li.entioning  Porao  shares  in  a  pro- 
jected railway  from  one  little-known 
corner  of  the  earth  to  another  ev^n 
more  n  mote  and  less  frequented. 

'  Not  exactly ;  that  is' —  Edgar  Tal- 
l>ot  stammered,  hesitated,  stopped, 
tliin  cried  out,  'you  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  it's  t(X)  late  ' 

'  rUad  that,'  Mr.  Sutton  answered  ; 
and  Edgar  eat  and  read— in  what 
word.s  it  matters  not— it  is  suth- 
cieut  to  say  that  they  told  him  that 
one  of  his  Imrks  of  fortune  was 
wrecked  in  port ;  one  of  his  golden 
dreams  had  mdted  away,  leaving 
him  a  very  much  poorer  man,  not 
only  in  reality  hut  in  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  that  knew  of  his  in- 
vestments. 

He  felt  himself  to  he  considerably 
crijjpled  in  his  resources  and  when 
he  was  able  to  realize  it  lie  confes.sed 
to  Mark  Sutton  that  he  was  so  crip- 
pled, and  that  he  regretted  having 
tied  the  'millstone  of  this  establi.sh- 
mcnt '  al)out  his  neck.  '  You'll  \  ight 
yourself  in  time  if  you're  prudent,' 
Mark  rejoined;  '  meant iuie,'  he 
added,  feelingly,  'it's  a  good  thing, 
a  very  happy  tiling,  that  you're  not 
married.  Let  Beatrix  come  to  her 
si.ster;  that  will  be  a  fair  ixcu.^e  for 
dispen&ing  with  Mrs.  Lyon.' 


'Tli.inks;   Imt  I   can't    do    that 
wein   l'dt,':ir  replied. 

'Why  not?' 

'  Oh,  I  can't  do  it  well,'  E<lgar  re- 
peated. He  could  not  lx;ar  the 
thought  of  loosening  nny  link  that 
might  be  formed  between  Blanche 
and  himself.  In  the  uiidst  f)f  the 
sharp  pain  he  felt  at  having  lost  a 
fortune,  there  was  alleviation  in  the 
thought  of  Blanche  Lyon.  The 
vision  of  lier  in  her  bright,  Ixninie 
beauty,  as  she  had  walked  by  his 
side  that  day,  made  him  feel  this 
hfe  worth  havinj/,  the  eternal  battle 
of  it  worth  hglifing.  S!ie  was  a 
good  motive  power.  Other  fortunes 
were  to  be  won,  and  should  l)e  won 
for  her.  His  was  not  by  any  means 
a  nature  to  turn  to  pleasure  and 
shirk  pain  Still,  now  lie  could  not 
help  feeling  that  to-morrow  was  very 
near,  and  that  then  he  would  l)e  on 
his  way  to  flowery  glades  and  forests 
green  with  Blanche  Lyon.  For  a 
while  at  least  he  would  banish  his 
business  and  turn  his  back  upon 
trouV)le:  for  a  while  June  and 
Blanche  and  flowers  and  fresh  air 
should  have  all  his  heart  and  soul. 
Mark  Sutt(m  marvelled  to  see  the 
amtiitious  young  man  l>ear  the  fir.^t 
bad  blow— the  lirst  sharp  reverse  he 
had  ever  met  with— so  well.  It 
touched  the  man,  whoso  heart  had 
ached  sadly  with  sorrowful  fore- 
boding, when  called  upon  to  tell  the 
tidings,  that  E<lgar  should  receive 
them  so  steadily.  It  touclied  Mr. 
Sutton  more  to  hear  Edgar's  parting 
words,  'Good-bye,  old  fellow;  I'm 
glad  I  haven't  crippled  you,  any 
way !' 


CHANGES. 

*  F";ich  heart  lias  ifa  sometxxly.' 

Oil,  .Mice  I  what  arc  you  doing. 
Sitting  alone  in  your  room  ? 
The  othei-s  downstairs  are  ilancing  ; 
You  must  not  stay  in  the  glfxnn. 
What  is  the  matter,  my  darling? 

Your  voice  is  husky  with  tears  ; 
And  your  cheek  wa«  wet  when  I  kis.scd  it— 
Tlierc— whisper— nolKxIy  hours. 


Changes,  371 

No  answer — must  I  conjecture  ? 

Is  some  one  you  love  to  blame  ? 
Has  somebody  cross'd  or  vex'd  you  ? 

Hush,  deai'est,  I  use  no  name ! 
There's  no  need  to  flush  so  crimson. 

For  what  have  I  said  or  done  ? 
Isn't  somebody  some  one's  darling  ? 

Each  heart  has  its  Number  One ! 

Come,  lift  up  those  drooping  lashes, 

And  give  me  your  hand  to  hold ; 
Look  for  a  moment  at  me,  dear — 

Am  I  not  wrinkled  and  old  ? 
Nay,  smile  not,  I  mean  it,  Ahce ; 

There's  reason  in  what  I  said. 
I  know  how  the  world  regards  me^ 

I'm  only  a  poor  old  maid. 

Oh,  Alice !  I'm  weak  in  crying ; 

But  the  mere  touch  of  your  arms. 
Which  circle  my  neck  in  pity. 

Calls  up  the  old  past,  and  warms 
My  spirit  with  bygone  visions. 

I  see,  in  a  far  review. 
The  days  when  somebody  loved  me. 

And  I  was  a  girl  like  you. 

Perhaps  you  will  scarce  beheve  it, 

But,  a  long  long  time  ago, 
I'd  a  face  that  was  not  uncomely. 

And  I'd  friends  who  told  me  so. 
This  wrinkled  skia  then  was  pohsh'd. 

These  dim  eyes  were  clear  and  bright. 
My  hair  had  a  shade  as  golden 

As  yours  when  you  face  the  light 

And  thus — ^but  it  seems  a  fable 

When  you  cannot  even  trace 
A  remnant  of  youth  and  beauty 

On  my  sorrow-graven  face  ; 
When  scarcely  a  friend  about  me 

Knows  even  my  Christian  name— 
Well,  all  I  can  hope  is,  AUce, 

Yoiir  lot  vrill  not  prove  the  same  I 

It  was  not  my  fault  entirely ; 
Yet  somehow  I  learnt  too  late 
Brotherly  love  and  sympathies 

To  nurture  and  cultivate. 
Perhaps  if  I'd  done  so  sooner 

I  might  not  be  standing  here. 
With  never  a  friend  but  you,  love. 

To  yield  to  my  tale  a  tear. 

Listen !  I'll  tell  you  what  happen'd— 

The  same  happens  ev'ry  day; 
Somebody  told  me  he  loved  me. 

And  I  gave  my  heart  away ! 
We  parted — he  named  a  twelvemonth ; 

He  vow'd  to  be  true  and  trust. 
Ah,  well ! — I  will  put  it  briefly— 

His  vows  were  written  in  dust! 

a  B  9 


872  Changes. 


"Wo  partoti— and  worse  than  distance 

^^lls  flic  world  that  crept  ht'tweon; 
Thf  ^'lowiiijj:  hf^hts  of  tlie  jirescnt, 

Wliich  d(a4l(iKMl  wliat  once  liad  been, 
lie  forp)t  ine  when  I  was  absent, 

III;  went  afU'r  souiothiiipj  new — 
Alice,  don't  look  so  indignant, 

'Tis  what  hundreds  of  people  do  I 

I  waited — oil,  how  I  waited  ! — 

I  never  would  lend  an  ear 
To  evil  reports  that  reached  me; 

I  wait4'(i  with  scarce  a  fear. 
I  wondered  alK)ut  his  silence. 

But  never  about  hM^  fa  if  fi ; 
IS  I  had  not  heard  for  certain, 

I  had  waited  unto  death. 

I  waited — the  tide  of  pleasure 

Flowed  soft  to  my  weary  feet ; 
And  suitors  and  friends  press'd  round  me 

With  murraurings  fond  and  sweet ; 
But  I  pass'd  them  all  by  imhecxled. 

Their  friendship  would  never  do 
For  one  who  was  waiting  for  somebody— 

For  one  who  was  firm  and  true. 

It  came,  after  months  of  waiting— 

That  signal  of  dark  despair — 
Men  spoke  of  my  friend  as  married, 

And  said  that  his  wif(!  was  fair. 
Oh!  far,  far  the  bitterest  trial 

The  tidings  could  afford 
Was  not  that  his  love  was  lost  to  me. 

But  that  he  broke  his  word 

Now  long  years  of  toil  and  trouble 

Have  cast  a  trcnuilous  shade 
Over  that  mom(>nt  of  nngui.sh  ; 

Old  Time  ha,s  made  sorrow  fiado. 
I  can  tell  my  Alice  alK)ut  it, 

Which  I  could  not  have  done  before; 
But  when  Time  has  acted  as  plaster 

We  may  venture  to  touch  a  sore. 

My  heart  is  as  whole  as  ever- 
Yon  smile  as  you  wipe  that  tear; 

But,  Alice,  it  only  gathered 
At  sight  of  your  sorrow,  dear! 

It's  just  what  I  meant  to  tell  you; 
No  trouble  is  sent  in  vain. 

If  I  htu\  not  sutTcred  myself, 
I'd  not  understood  your  pain. 

Coine,  if  you  misdoul)t  my  meaning, 

I'll  f(!ll  you  what  chanced  to-night. 
Did  you  see  that  old  man  downstaini, 

Who.s(;  hair  was  so  thin  and  white? 
If  I  remembr  profwrly, 

You  stiKKl  ill  the  corridor 
When,  in  the  throng  of  careless  guesta. 

He  came  through  the  entranc^oor. 


^c?/^ 


Drawn  hy  J.  D.  Watson.'^  CHANGES. 


374  Changes. 


Do  you  rememher  onr  meeting ;" 

Our  liaiuls  liow  quiitly  clasped ; 
The  lonj:,  calm  pazc  in  each  other's  eyes; 

And  the  silciicc  that  elapsed, 
Before  our  hearts  recovered  speech  ? 

Well,  ix!ople  would  never  have  thought 
That  he  had  once  been  ray  somebody; 

Even  you  discovered  nought. 

Yes,  it  is  just  as  I  tell  you — 

After  many  bitter  ycfirs 
We  met,  with  no  show  of  feeling, 

No  sighings,  reproaclies,  tears. 
We  met  but  as  mere  acquaintance, 

With  greetings  constrained  and  cold ; 
■  Only  a  glance  of  wonder 

That  each  should  have  grown  so  old. 

He  spoke— but  liis  verj'  accents 

Were  changed  from  their  former  tone. 
That  querulous  voice  was  never 

The  voice  of  my  love — my  own ; 
*Twas  the  voice  of  the  gouty  husband 

Of  her  in  maroon  and  lace. 
Who  sat  by  Sir  John  at  dinner. 

And  grew  so  red  in  the  face. 

Well,  AJice,  this  world  of  ours 

Is  made  up  of  changing  things; 
We,  too,  are  part  of  its  changes. 

For  we,  too,  are  lx)rn  with  wings. 
We're  changing  our  nature  daily, 

And  worms  will  be  by-and-by 
Transformed  into  shining  angels. 

Which  neither  can  change  nor  die. 

So,  Alice,  don't  sit  here  moping 

And  sighing  f(jr  some  one's  sake ; 
When  the  world  is  made  up  of  changes 

There's  no  fear  your  heart  will  break; 
For  even  the  loved  and  injured 

Get  over  the  i)ain  at  last. 
Grow  wiser,  calmer,  and  better 

For  lessons  learnt  in  the  past. 

And,  Ahce,  one  thing  is  certain — 
Whene'er  we  are  grieved  by  change 

We  return  with  renewed  affection 
To  One  whom  no  years  estrange. 

Tis  comfort  to  mete  His  kindness. 
And  feel  it  can  never  end  ; 

Oh,  AUce!— I've  proved  it  daily- 
God  is  the  old  maid's  friend. 


^tj^a. 


I'mwn  h_v  .f.  A.  I'n-xiiiirr. ] 


LILY'S    LOSS. 


[Sit  the  Slon-. 


375 


LILY'S  LOSS. 


CHAPTEK  L 


MR.  BRAMWELL  was  a  Bristol 
mercliaiit,  and  he  owned  a 
charming  house  and  grounds  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  Durdham 
Down. 

One  fine  July  evening  several 
people  were  collected  together  in  Mr. 
Bram well's  garden,  sitting  in  a  group 
on  the  lawn  under  a  laurel  liedge. 
Two  ladies,  strikingly  alike  in  fea- 
tures, but  with  a  suflficient  disparity 
of  age  to  show  their  relationship, 
were  in  the  centre  of  the  group,  on  a 
garden  seat.  Around  them  were 
several  gentlemen,  Mr.  Brainwell's 
particular  friends,  and  most  of  them, 
like  himself,  merchauts  in  the  good 
old  city  of  Bristol.  They  had  all  been 
invited  to  celebrate  the  wedding- 
day  of  their  host  and  liostess,  the 
latter  of  whom,  who  was  the  eldest 
of  the  two  ladies  on  the  garden  seat, 
was  in  the  highest  possible  spirits, 
and,  by  her  gaiety  and  unaffected 
manner,  completely  fascinated  the 
little  group  collected  around  her. 

Lily  Bram  well,  who  sat  by  her 
mother's  side,  was  unusually  quiet 
and  reserved,  and  by  no  means 
shared  her  mother's  flow  of  spirits, 
or  joined  in  the  animated  conversa- 
tion in  which  her  father's  friends 
were  engaged. 

She  kept  turning  her  eyes  every 
now  and  then  towards  the  garden- 
gate,  as  if  expecting  that  some 
one  would  put  in  an  appearance 
from  that  quarter,  whose  presence 
she  either  particularly  desired  or 
dreaded.  It  might  have  been  either 
the  one  or  the  other. 

Each  time  that  the  wheels  of  a  car- 
riage were  heard,  she  seemed  to  trem- 
ble|;  and  as  each  fresh  visitor  arrived, 
a  cloud  of  annoyance  or  disappoint- 
ment stole  over  her  face.  She  re- 
ceived their  congratulations  awk- 
wardly ;  and,  having  rephed  to  their 
pretty  little  compliments  with  some 
ordinary  set  speech,  she  turned  away 
her  head  and  the  old  melancholy 
expression  came  back.  There  was 
but  one  sentence  to  be  read  in  those 


soft  blue  eyes,  now  quite  misty  with 
scarcely-restrained  tears — 

'  Will  he  neVer  come  ?' 

A  lively  conversation  was  still 
kept  up  among  IMr.  Bram  well's 
guests,  several  of  whom  had  noticed 
Lily's  reserved  manner,  though  of 
course  without  making  the  slightest 
allusion  to  it.  The  conversation 
ran  from  business  matters  to  politics, 
from  politics  to  the  ordinary  gossip 
of  the  day;  and  when  once  fairly 
started  on  this  always-engrossing 
topic,  one  of  the  guests  alluded  to 
the  sudden  appearance  in  Bristol 
of  a  young  lady  of  extraordinary 
beauty.  She  was  of  Italian  extrac- 
tion, he  said,  and  reported  to  bo  of 
very  good  family,  and  to  possess  a 
large  fortune.  She  had  only  been 
in  England  a  very  few  days ;  and 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  previous 
day  she  had  been  seen  for  the  first 
time  on  her  brother's  arm  at  a 
flower  fete  in  the  Clifton  Zoological 
Gardens.  Her  brother,  Luigi  Amato, 
was  well  known  in  Bristol. 

Every  one  who  had  seen  the  beauti- 
ful foreigner  was  especially  loud  in 
her  praise  on  this  occasion.  Still, 
Lily  Bramwell  took  no  interest  in 
the  conversation  and  did  not  appear 
to  hear  what  they  were  talking 
about.  The  name,  which  was  being 
repeated  again  and  again,  was  not 
unfamiliar  to  her. 

Luigi  Amato  had  been  in  Bristol 
fur  more  than  a  year,  and  Lily  had 
heard  him  constantly  alluded  to. 
Young,  rich,  and  gifted  with  a  lively 
imagination,  and  unusually  charming 
manner,  he  had  made  a  decided,  and 
by  no  means  an  unfavourable  im- 
pression at  all  the  houses  to  which 
he  had  been  invited.  But  what  did 
Lily  care  about  young  Amato,  and 
his  taste  for  music,  and  soft  tenor 
voice,  and  powers  of  fascination, 
when  her  mind  at  this  moment 
was  absolutely  on  the  rack,  all  for 
a  certain  somebody  who  was  in- 
vited and  expected,  but  who  had 
never  come. 


37G 


Lily' a  Loss, 


It  was  iiowvcry  close  upon  diriiier- 
liiuo,  mid  Lily's  uniasiness  was 
boeoiiiir  '^  iiioro  and  more  apparent. 
All  tilt'  };iK'sts  but  one  liad  arrived. 
The  dt'scrtt-r  wius  Arthur  Dayrcll,  a 
jouDR  Bristol  uitrchant,  and  the 
Jiaiire  of  Lily  Bramwoll.  What 
could  possibly  be  the  meaninp;  of 
Avtliur's  I'orpettulness?  If  unwell, 
why  had  no  luc^6flge  bcc-n  re- 
ceived? 

On  such  an  orcnpion  it  must  be 
business  of  the  utmost  inipDrtanoe, 
or  nepleet  of  the  most  unwarrant- 
able nature,  which  could  keep 
Arthur  away  from  Mr.  Braniwell's 
house,  and  his  pretty  daughter's 
side.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Lily 
Bramwell  was  rtstrved,  and  that 
she  looked  so  unusually  sad. 

Dinner  was  announc(d,  and  they 
all  left  the  garden  and  walked  to- 
wards the  dining-room.  Ju.st  be- 
fore entering,  a  servant  put  a  note 
into  Mr.  Bramwell's  1  ai  d.  He  just 
glanced  at  it,  and  addressing  his 
wife,  said — 

'  I  am  sorry  to  tell  yon  that 
Arthur  Dayrell  can't  come  to-day. 
He  is  detained  in  the  city  by  sucUlen 
and  mo>t  urgent  bu.siness,  and  Ings 
Die  to  convey  to  you  all  sorts  of 
apologies  and  regrets.' 

Lily  I'ramwell  looked  sadder  than 
ever  ^  imd,  had  it  not  bevn  that 
she  knew  that  all  eyes  were  turned 
towards  her,  some  of  the  tears  which 
came  welling  to  her  eyes  must  have 
escaped,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
restrain  them. 

'  I!y-the-by,'  Paid  an  old  grey- 
headed gentleman,  'before  I  left 
the  Commercial  Rooms  this  after- 
nof»n,  an  ugly  rumour  was  abroad. 
Report  h:is  it  that  liayrell's  house 
ha.s  been  engaged  in  a  ruinous 
speculation.' 

Several  of  the  guests  here  atldcd 
fresh  items  of  news  to  the  rumour, 
which  they  all  apixsurcd  to  have 
heard  in  the  city. 

'  I'm  afraid  Hayrcll's  house  won't 
stand  such  shocks  as  the.<;e,'  said  Mr. 
Bramwell ;  '  I've  hciird  his  credit  is 
not  over  gofnl,  as  it  is.' 

'  Ivct's  hope  he'll  tide  over  it,' .said 
the  old  gentleman,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  impliwl  that,  in  his  f)i)iiiioii, 
there  was  no  chance  whatever  of 
anch  a  contingency. 


'  Ruined !'  said  Lily  to  herself. 
'  I  never  expected  such  a  blow  as 
this.' 

The  dinner  was  not  altogetlier  a 
success.  They  had  got  upon  di.s- 
agrceablo  topics.  Lily's  melancholy 
was  infectious ;  and  soon  I\Ir.  and 
Mrs.  I'ramwell  were  attacked  with 
the  same  malady.  The  evening 
passed  away  wearily,  and  at  a  tole- 
rably early  hour  the  party  was  broken 
uj).  The  day,  which  liad  commenced 
under  such  happy  auspices,  had 
but  a  miserable  termination. 

Day  afier  day  ]>iissed  away,  and 
still  Arthur  Dayrell  never  camo 
near  the  Bramwells'  house.  Lily 
lived  upon  her  sorrow  in  silence, 
waited  patiently  for  her  lover's 
arrival,  longed  anxiously  to  hear 
from  him,  or  some  tidings  of  him, 
— but  Arthur  Dayrell  kept  away, 
and  Lily  received  no  comforting 
news. 

The  day  after  the  little  party  on 
Mrs.  Bramwell's  wedding-day,  her 
husband  had  to  hurry  up  to  London 
on  business,  and  so  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  go  and  look  Arthur  up, 
as  he  bad  intended  to  have  done. 
When  Mr.  Bramwell  came  back,  he 
thought  Arthur's  conduct  rather 
strange  in  not  having  come  near  any 
of  them,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  felt 
a  little  annoyed  at  his  extraordinary 
neglect  as  regarded  Lily.  Ami  .so  ho 
wrote.  The  answer  was  stiff  and 
formal ;  business  was  ))leaded  as  an 
excuse  for  not  coming  to  call  on  the 
Bramwells.  There  was  no  mention 
whatever  in  this  letter  of  Lily.  Mr. 
Bramwell  talked  the  matter  over 
with  his  wife,  and  it  wiis  ultimately 
(fecided  between  them  that  the  sub- 
ject should  l)e  allowed  to  rast  for  a 
few  weeks.  The  Dayrells  were,  no 
doubt,  in  an  awkward  predicament 
as  far  as  business  was  concerue<l ; 
and  Mr.  Bramwell  had  no  wish, 
however  much  pained  he  was,  to 
intrude  upon  his  old  friends  with 
another  disagreeable  subject.  As 
for  Lily,  she  did  not  quite'  look  at 
Arthur's  conduct  in  this  matter  of- 
fuct  light. 

There  hafl  be(;n  passages  of  love 
l)ctween  them  deep  and  ten<ler, 
and,  a.s  she  had  thought,  p:)or 
girl,  very  true.  There  had  been 
wild  moments  when,  hand-in-iiand. 


Lily's  Loss. 


377 


thoy  had  talked  of  a  bright  and 
happy  future,  and  had  alluded 
to  separation  as  an  utter  impos- 
sibility. Would  business,  then,  de- 
tain him  from  her  side,  unless  there 
were  some  other  and  far  more  en- 
grossing cause?  Would  business 
be  of  so  urgent  a  nature  as  to  pre- 
vent his  writing  a  lew  lines  to  say 
that  he  was,  as  he  had  ever  been, 
true  to  his  own  love?  What  a 
comfort  such  a  short  note  would 
have  been  to  the  poor  girl,  heart- 
broken at  the  very  idea  of  having 
to  believe  her  own  suspicions.  She 
had  heard  of  these  quiet  separations 
before  from  girl-friends  of  hers. 
She  had  been  told  of  men — men 
with  affection,  but  of  a  weak  and 
vacillating  temperament,  who  had 
stolen  away  from  their  engagement 
and  honour,  in  the  very  night,  as  it 
were,  making  long  absence  and  deep 
silence  tell  the  tale  of  their  untruth. 
That  Arthur  Dayrell  had  a  heart 
she  knew;  that  he  was  wild  and 
impressionable,  she  feared.  And 
this  was  to  be  the  end  of  her  ro- 
mance !  This  was  the  man  she 
had  bowed  down  to  and  almost 
worshipped ;  a  man  who  had  taken 
her  many  times  to  his  heart ;  a  man 
to  whom  she  had  disclosed  the 
secrets  of  her  young  life ;  a  man 
whose  comforts  and  happiness  she 
had  prayed  on  her  knees  that  she 
might  study;  a  man  who  had  re- 
paid this  devotion  by  turning  his 
back  upon  her — who  had  left  her 
with  her  tears,  heartbroken  and 
alone  in  the  world. 

About  six  weeks  after  the  dinner- 
party, as  they  were  sitting  down  at 
breakfast,  the  servant  as  usual 
brought  in  Mr.  Bramwell's  letters 
and  the  local  morning  paper.  It 
was  Lily's  duty  to  cut  this  for  her 
father  while  he  was  reading  his 
letters.  He  was  rather  longer 
than  usual  over  them  on  this 
morning,  and  Lily  employed  her- 
self during  the  interval  with 
glancing  over  the  contents  of  the 
paper. 

Suddenly  the  paper  dropped  from 
her  hands,  and  the  poor  girl  burst 
into  a  violent  fit  of  hysterical  weep- 
ing. She  turned  towards  her  mother, 
who  had  come  over  to  her,  and 
sobbed  out — 


'Oh,  mamma!  it  is  really  all 
over  now !' 

'What  is  it,  "my  child?'  asked 
Mrs.  Bramwell. 

'  Read  it,  mamma ;  read  it.  I 
really  cannot  speak  any  more.' 

Lily  handed  her  mother  the  paper, 
and  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Bramwell  read  the  announce- 
ment of  the  marriage  of  the  sister 
of  Luigi  Amato  with  Arthur  Day- 
rell. 

A  fortnight  after  this  little  scene 
in  the  breaktast-room,  a  very  large 
public  ball  was  given  in  the  Vic- 
toria Eooms,  m  honour  of  some 
event  of  general  interest. 

Lily  Bramwell  had  expressed  a 
particular  wish  to  go,  and  her 
parents  had  no  wish  to  prevent  her. 
Everybody  would,  of  course,  be 
there;  and  there  seejped  every 
chance  that,  on  this  occasion,  the 
newly-married  couple  would,  for 
the  first  time,  meet  Lily  Bramwell 
face  to  face.  It  is  a  harmless  curi- 
osity to  wish  to  see  your  rival ;  and 
Lily  was  certainly  not  proof  against 
this.  Her  parents  knew  their  child 
well  enough  to  be  quite  sure  as  to 
how  she  would  behave  on  such  an 
occasion,  and  had  quite  sufficient 
confidence  in  her  to  know  that  her 
good-breeding  would  triurqph  over 
and  be  superior  to  any  natural  feel- 
ings of  spite  or  annoyance  which 
might  possibly  be  lying  in  her 
bosom.  There  was  certainly  no 
danger  or  likelihood  of  a  scene. 
Lily's  grief  was  too  deep  to  be  vul- 
garized. It  was  a  trying  ordeal,  of 
coiirge,  for  her  to  go  through  ;  and 
her  father  and  mother  could  not 
quite  make  out  why  she  should  insist 
on  making  herself  a  martyr,  which 
she  certainly  intended  to  do.  It 
is  a  pleasant  sort  of  a  pain,  though, 
this  meeting  after  a  great  defeat ; 
and  though  it  makes  our  hearts 
bleed,  we  all  go  through  it,  and 
would  go  on  taking  draught  after 
draught  of  the  nauseous  dose  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation. 

When  Lily  Bramwell  appeared 
in  the  ball-room,  all  eyes  were  in- 
stinctively turned  towards  her.  The 
story  had  flown  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  the  sympathies  of  the 
room  were  most  certainly  with 
Lily  Bramwell. 


378 


Lily  8  Loss. 


She  looked  charmingly.  Ilcr 
dress,  whuli  was  of  pure  white, 
unreIiove«i  h\  any  colour  except  tlic 
red  caiueliii  which  plowed  in  her 
fiiir  hair,  accorded  exactly  with  her 
pure  and  innocent  face.  She  looked 
what  she  wiis,  a  perfect  laly ;  and 
as  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her  still 
handsome  mother  people  looked  in 
vain  for  some  remainiup  traces  of 
the  preat  prief  which  she  had  en- 
dured. There  were  certainly  none 
in  her  face.  They  were  all  burial 
away  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  and  no 
one  had  any  key  to  this  but  herself. 
All  novice  as  she  was  in  the  art  of 
dissimulation,  she  so  entirely  put 
people  olT  their  guard  by  her  cheer- 
ful looks  and  sweet  demeanour  that 
they  most  of  them  made  up  their 
minds  that  the  past  was  quite 
efTaced  from  her  memory.  She  was 
the  objecf  of  universal  attention 
and  admiration  when  Arthur  Day- 
rell  and  his  wife  entered  the  ball- 
room. It  was  so  late  wlien  they 
came  that  Lily  had  almost  made  up 
her  mind  to  1x3  disappointed.  And 
now  a  cold  shiver  ran  tlirough  all 
her  veins,  and  her  heart  beat 
quickly. 

The  arrival  of  the  Dayrells  made 
rather  a  sen.«ation  in  the  ball-room. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Mrs.  Dayrell's  striking  br auty,  the 
easy,  seductive  praco  of  her  manner, 
and  her  commanding  figure  made  a 
great  effect  in  the  nxtni.  She  had 
hardly  time  to  make  her  entrance 
liefore  she  was  literally  surrounded. 
Iler  card  was  full  in  less  than  five 
minutes,  and  she  had  given  suffi- 
cient promises  for  extra  dances  to 
fill  many  more  cards.  In  the  ge- 
neral movement  which  took  place 
on  Mrs.  Dayrell's  arrival  the  little 
group  round  the  I'ramwells  was 
dipfKjrsed.  The  orchestral  )ur.'<t  into 
life  again,  and  the  first  few  bars  of 
a  quadrille  were  played.  Lily  re- 
mained sitting  by  jier  mother's  side. 
It  seemed  the  work  of  a  moment. 
Somebo<ly  was  brought  up  to  her 
and  iutrfxluced;  and  in  two  seconds 
she  was  standing  by  the  side  of 
Luigi  Amato  in  a  quadrille,  with 
Mrs.  Arthur  Dajrell  as  her  vi.s-a-vis. 
The  courage  of  which  Lily  Bram- 


well  had  boa.sted,  and  which  she 
had  steeled  herself  into  maintaining, 
was  very  nearly  giving  way  at  this 
point.  She  had  longed  to  see  her 
rival,  and  now  she  was  dancing 
oppo.site  to  her.  Luckily  Arthur 
was  not  with  his  wife ;  had  ho  been 
there  the  shock  would  have  Ixsen  too 
much  for  Lily.  lie  had  left  the 
ball-room  soon  after  his  first  ap- 
pearance with  his  wife,  and  was  now 
busily  engaged  in  the  card-room. 
Perhaps,  under  all  the  circum- 
stances, this  was  the  best  thing  he 
could  have  done. 

The  set  in  which  Mrs.  Arthur 
Dayrell  and  Lily  P>raiuwell  were  no 
inconsiderable  items  was  soon  made 
up.  Women  can  take  in  a  great 
deal  at  a  glance.  There  was  one  of 
these  sharp,  searching  glances,  so 
peculiar  to  women,  and  which  are 
nearly  in  every  case  so  particularly 
accurate,  which  came  from  both  the 
women  on  this  particular  occasion. 
One  look  seemed  quite  sufficient 
for  both  of  them.  Their  eyes  met 
once,  and  then  only  for  a  second. 
They  never  met  again. 

Mrs.  Arthur  Dayrell's  toilette  was 
extremely  rich,  but  in  the  m^jst  per- 
fect taste.  She  had  cameo  ornaments, 
from  the  antique,  and  of  priceless 
value,  as  ornaments  for  her  neck, 
hea<l,  and  arms.  Every  attitude  was  a 
picture,  every  movement  displayed 
grace  and  ahaudon.  There  was  a  kind 
of  dreamy  listlessness  about  this 
beautiful  Italian  woman  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  the  tire  in 
her  eyes  and  the  proud  curl  of  her 
scarlet  lips.  She  was  certainly  a 
gloriously  handsome  woman.  No 
one  could  avoid  noticing  the  extra- 
ordinary contrast  l)etween  these  two 
women.  As  far  as  beauty  went  of 
course  there  could  be  no  comparison. 
But  there  were  many,  no  doubt,  in 
the  room  who  would  have  valued 
one  smile  from  simple-looking  Lily 
Brarawell  more  than  ten  thousand 
from  this  superb  creature. 

After  this  famous  quadrille,  Lily 
Braniwcll  was  never  allowed  to  rest. 
She  valsed  exqui.^itely,  and  was 
secured  by  all  the  best  dancers  in 
the  room.  She  could  have  had  half 
a  dozen  partners  for  every  dance  if 
she  had  wired  for  them.  Mrs.  Arthur 
Dayrell  did  not  valse,  and  seemed 


Lily^s  Loss. 


379 


somewhat  annoyed  at  the  unusual 
attention  which  was  being  paid  to 
Lily.  She  left  the  ball-room  early, 
and  Lily  had  the  entire  possession 
of  the  field.  Luigi  Amato  remained, 
but  he  did  not  dance  again. 

He  took  a  seat  next  to  Mrs. 
Bramwcll,  and  with  great  tact  led 
the  conversation  towards  that  sub- 
ject which  is  invariably  welcome  to 
a  mother's  ears  —  her  daughter's 
beauty.  From  this  he  began  with 
equal  tact  to  express  regret  at 
having  been  so  long  in  Bristol,  and 
intimate  with  so  many  friends  of 
the  Bramwells,  without  ever  having 
had  any  opportunity  of  knowing 
them  intimately.  He  had  heard 
about  them  frequently,  of  course, 
but  by  some  strange  coincidence  or 
fatality  they  had  never  met  so  as  to 
secure  an  introduction  before  this 
happy  occasion. 

Mrs.  Bramwell  could  not,  under 
these  circumstances,  fail  to  say  how 
delighted  she  would  be  for  him  to 
call  and  know  them  better ;  but  she 
could  not  help  thinking  when  she 
got  home  about  the  strange  impe- 
tuosity of  his  manner  and  the  burst 
of  enthusiasm  with  which  the  in- 
vitation was  received. 

Luigi  Amato  was  not  long  in 
availing  himself  of  Mrs.  Bram well's 
invitation. 

No  one  knew  better  than  he  how 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  strange 
people,  and  few  were  more  successful 
in  the  art  of  pleasing.  His  first  visit 
led  to  another  and  another,  and  on 
each  occasion  he  received  a  warmer 
■welcome  than  the  last. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  Lily 
Bramwell's  name  began  to  be 
coupled  with  that  of  the  handsome 
young  foreigner.  We  who  Uve  in 
the  world  know  that  people  are  apt 
to  chatter  soon  enough  about  these 
things.  Strange  to  say,  Lily  Bram- 
well did  not  repel  the  attentions 
paid  to  her  by  Luigi.  Perhaps  she 
was  piqued  at  the  bad  treatment 
she  had  received  at  the  hands  of 
Arthur  Dayrell,  and  it  was,  no 
doubt,  a  not  unpleasant  kind  of  re- 
venge to  be  seen  everywhere  with  a 
man  who  had  been  his  rival,  and  to 
have  her  name  connected  with  his 
by  all  their  mutual  friends. 

Girls  who  have  been  badly  treated 


don't,  as  a  rule,  like  the  idea  of 
going  through  the  world  with  that 
ugly  word  '  jilted '  pasted  on  their 
backs ;  and  it  is  some  poor  conso- 
lation to  them,  in  the  event  of  their 
being  served  in  tlie  shameful  way 
that  Lily  Bramwell  was  by  Arthur 
Dayrell,  to  show  the  conscious  world 
that  there  are  as  good  men  to  be 
found  any  day  in  the  week  as  those 
who  by  their  conduct  seem  to  say 
that  they  have  so  far  gained  in- 
fluence over  a  woman  that  they  can 
behave  as  badly  to  her  as  can  be 
without  incurring  any  feeling  of 
remorse  or  shame. 

Lily  Bramwell  was,  as  far  as  the 
world's  eyes  were  concerned,  very 
much  flattered  with  the  attentions 
that  were  being  paid  to  her.  What 
was  passing  in  her  heart  it  is  not 
our  province  to  say. 

Luigi  Amato  was  not  slow  in  per- 
ceiving the  favourable  impression 
he  had  made,  and  he  followed  up  his 
advantage  like  a  skilled  tactician. 
His  attentions  became  more  and 
more  marked,  and  every  day  he  in- 
gratiated himself  more  and  more 
with  Lily  Bramwell  and  her  parents. 

The  wounded  heart  needs  con- 
solation, and  in  the  sweet  art  of 
consoling  the  dark  foreigner  was 
an  adept.  The  tender  ivy  clings  to 
the  rugged  elm,  and  just  in  the 
same  way  poor  heartbroken  Lily 
got  to  enjoy  the  society  of  her  new 
friend,  in  whose  hands  she  seemed 
almost  powerless.  She  never  ac- 
tually loved  him,  perhaps,  certainly 
not  in  the  same  way  that  she  had 
loved  Arthur  Dayrell,  but  she  liked 
the  petting  and  attention  of  the  big 
dog  in  whose  presence — delicate 
little  kitten  as  she  was— she  knew 
she  was  free  from  all  possible  kind 
of  danger. 

Under  his  care,  and  acting  up  to 
his  advice,  she  met  and  shook  hands 
with  Arthur  Dayrell.  It  was  best 
that  they  should  not  be  bad  friends 
any  more  he  had  said,  and  so  Lily 
steeled  herself  for  the  ordeal,  and 
under  all  the  circumstances  got  over 
it  very  creditably. 

Of  course  it  was  a  terrible  meet- 
ing, but  Lily  had  made  up  her 
mind  before  she  undertook  the  task 
that  there  should  be  no  faltering  on 
her  side. 


380 


IMifa  Loss, 


Thoy  met,  shook  hands,  and  passed 
on ;  and  after  tluit  moment  Arthur 
Dayrell  l>ccame  an  ordinary  friend 
and  no  more  to  Lily  Ikamwcll. 

The  presence  of  mind  of  women 
when  they  are  '  put  to  it '  is  pro- 
verbial, and  Lily  was  every  inch  a 
woman  in  this  respect 

It  was  not  lonp  Ixiforo  Luigi 
Amato  went  privately  to  Lily's  father 
and  asked  liis  formal  consent  to  a 
marriage  witli  his  daughter. 

'  As  regards  this  most  important 
subject,'  8,  id  Mr.  Bramwell,  '  Lily 
is  entirely  her  own  mistress.  I 
should  never  interfere  on  this  point 
,  with  my  children,  unless,  of  course, 
I  saw  anything  positively  distasteful 
or  ol)jectiouablo  in  the  person  con- 
cerned. I  need  hardly  say  that  I 
have  no  fault  to  find  with  you.  Go 
then  to  Lily  herself,  and  learn  from 
her  lips  what  she  has  to  say  in  the 
matter.  If  she  consents  I  can  only 
say  that  I  shall  consider  you  a  very 
lucky  follow,  and  wish  you  joy  with 
all  my  heart.  ]My  daughter  Lily, 
though  her  father  says  it,  is  not 
the  kind  of  wife  that  a  young  man 
picks  up  any  day  in  the  week,  par- 
ticularly in  this  degraded  and  sordid 
matoh-making  age.' 

Lily  Bramwell  looked  up  into  the 
eyes  of  her  rough  protector,  and,  in 
the  mo.st  art  less  and  childlike  manner 
p>068il)lo,  said  she  would  be  Luigi 
Amato's  wife. 

Luigi  was  most  anxioas  there 
should  V)e  no  delay  in  the  marriage. 
It  was  hi.s  express  wish,  too,  that 
there  should  Ixj  no  'fuss'  at  the 
wedding,  and  extracted  a  promise 
from  Mrs.  Bramwell  that  it  should 
be  as  quiet  as  it  possibly  could  be. 

The  young  couple  were  to  start 
for  Italy  as  soon  as  they  were  mar- 
ried ;  for  at  (ienoa  Luigi  Amato  had 
some  pressing  business,  which  would 
very  prolwibly  occupy  him  for  some 
time  to  a)me.  The  young  Italian 
anticipated  some  pritlo  in  intro- 
ducing his  charming  little  English 
wife  to  his  friends  and  relations 
over  in  his  native  country. 

Though  Lily  HramwoH  ha^l  gone 
through  the  onlcal  of  mooting  and 
shaking  hands  witli  .\rthur  iMyrell, 
she  had  hitherto  '  fought  shy,'  as  it 
is  called,  of  Arthur's  wife. 

Of  course  it  was  not  probable  that 


these  women  could  possibly  be  great 
friends,  and  it  was  eminently  natural 
that  thoy  should  mutually  put  off 
as  long  as  possible  the  inevitable 
meeting. 

Mrs.  Dayrell,  nee  Euphrosyno 
Amato,  knew  very  well  what  her 
husband  had  been  once  upon  a  time 
to  her  brother's  intended  bride; 
and  Lily  had  a  woman's  natural  re- 
pugnance to  a  woman  who  had  sup- 
planted her,  as  it  were,  in  the  affec- 
tions of  the  man  she  had  idolized. 
And  so  they  had  eyed  one  another 
at  a  distance  for  some  time  past, 
but  said  nothing.  In  their  hearts, 
however,  they  knew  well  enough 
that  there  would  never  be  any  very 
violent  friendship  between  them. 
Lily,  like  the  sweet-tempered  girl 
that  she  was,  arranged  plans  in  her 
mind  to  avoid  any  open  breach. 

Now,  however,  that  she  was  to 
become  Luigi  Amato's  wife  the  evil 
day  could  no  longer  be  postponed ; 
for  it  was  requisite  that  Mrs.  Arthur 
Dayrell,  ncr  Euphrosyne  Amato, 
should  lie  introduced  into  the  family 
of  which  her  brother  was  soon  to  be 
so  conspicuous  a  member. 

Mrs.  Bramwell  arranged  a  little 
garden  party — for  it  was  summer 
time — and  collected  together  a  few 
friends,  in  order  that  the  introduc- 
tion might  bo  as  little  formal  and 
painful  as  cii'cumstances  would 
permit. 

When  Mrs.  Arthur  Dayrell  arrived 
both  Mrs.  Bramwell  and  her  daugh- 
ter wont  across  the  garden  to  meet 
her,  and  their  greeting  was  at  least 
unaffected  and  sincere.  Mrs.  Arthur 
Dayrell  wa-s  stiff  and  formal,  and 
received  their  congratulations  with 
very  little  warmth.  This  line  of 
conduct  she  contiimed  throughout 
the  afternoon,  joining  but  little  in 
the  amusements  that  were  going  on, 
making  herself  as  little  agreeable  as 
possible,  and,  in  a  most  marked 
manner,  sitting  by  herself  on  the 
window-sill  of  the  library  window, 
which  opened  out  on  to  the  lawn. 
Her  eyes  were  constantly  fixed  uj)on 
Lily,  and  the  look  which  she  gave 
her  from  time  to  time  was  by  no 
means  an  agreeable  one.  Luigi 
noticed,  in  common  with  many  of 
the  other  guests,  his  sister's  extra- 
ordinary conduct,  and  went  towards 


Lily's  L088. 


881 


the  spot  she  had  selected  for  her- 
selfl 

'  I  hardly  think  you  are  behaving 
very  well  to  our  hosts  or  their 
guests,'  he  said.  *  Is  it  absolutely 
necessary  that  you  should  isolate 
yourself  from  them,  and  treat  us  all 
with  such  very  marked  contempt?' 

'  You  know  me  well  enough,  I 
should  tliiuk,  Luigi,  to  guess  the 
reason,'  she  replied.  '  1  don't  intend 
to  act  civility  where  I  don't  feel  it. 
I  absolutely  detest  that  simpering 
girl.' 

*  I  will  not  allow  you  to  speak 
like  this  to  me.' 

'  Then  why  did  you  begin  the 
conversation  ?  I  am  very  comfort- 
able where  I  am,  and  do  not  feel  in 
the  mood  for  indulging  in  wild 
panegyrics  on  Miss  Lily  Bramwell.' 

'  You  are  talking  absurdly  now, 
Euphrosyne.  I  don't  wish  you  to 
put  yourself  more  than  ordinarily 
out  of  the  way ;  but  I  think,  for  my 
sake,  you  might  behave  civilly  to 
poor  Lily.' 

Mrs.  Arthur  Dayrell  was  not  a 
badhearted  woman,  although  her 
temper  was  none  of  the  best,  and 
she  idolized  her  brother.  She  felt 
that  she  had  gone  a  little  too  far 
now,  and  was  really  sorry  when  she 
saw  that  Luigi  was  pained. 

'  Well,  never  mind,  Luigi/  she 
said,  soothingly.  •  I  will  go  with 
you,  and  make  pretty  speeches  to 
your  flaxen-haired  doll.' 

When  she  turned  to  take  Luigi's 
arm,  in  order  to  gain  the  croquet 
party  on  the  lawn,  she  met  Lily 
Bramwell  face  to  face. 

Lily  had  crept  slily  up  when 
Luigi  was  talking  to  his  sister,  de- 
termined to  surprise  him  with  her, 
and  to  show  him  that  there  should 
be  no  animosity  on  her  part  towards 
Mrs.  Arthur  Dayrell.  She  came  at 
an  unfortunate  time,  and  unavoid- 
ably overheard  a  greater  part  of 
their  conversation.  When  she 
turned  to  go  it  was  too  late,  and  a 
dull  kind  of  stupor  stole  over  her. 
Luigi  was  unaware  that  Lily  had 
overheard  his  sister's  remarks. 

'  My  sister  is  very  anxious  to  have 
a  turn  with  you  in  the  garden,'  he 
said.  '  I  shall  be  so  glad,  Lily,  if 
you  turn  out  to  be  capital  friends.' 

Lily,  still  stupefied,  heard  nothing 


until  Luigi  had  repeated  what  he 
had  said  two  or  three  times.  Luigi 
concluded  that  he  had  another  re- 
fractory spirit  to  deal  with,  and  that 
he  would  have  to  go  through  the 
same  amount  of  persuasion  over 
again.  He  had  not  anticipated  that 
he  would  have  any  difficulty  with 
Lily. 

When  Lily  recovered  herself,  and 
was  aware  that  she  was  being  ad- 
dressed, she  stared  at  them  both 
vacantly,  and  said  nothing.  This 
made  matters  worse  than  they 
were  before.  Luigi  Amato  was  an- 
noyed, and  he  did  not  disguise  his 
annoyance. 

'  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,'  said  he, 
in  rather  a  sarcastic  tone,  '  to  have 
interrupted  the  delightful  reverie 
you  were  in,  and  which  you  seemed 
to  enjoy  so  thoroughly.  I  will  take 
a  turn  or  two  with  my  sister  myself, 
if  you  wish  to  continue  your  dream, 
and  don't  desire  to  be  disturbed. 
Any  other  time  will  do  as  well  for 
my  sister.' 

Lily  blushed  deeply.  She  could 
not  get  Mrs.  Arthur  Dayrell's  cruel 
words  out  of  her  head ;  and  now  to 
these  were  added  the  first  unkind 
speech  she  had  heard  from  Luigi 
himself.  There  was  a  lump  in  her 
throat  in  an  instant,  and,  despite  of 
all  her  efforts,  the  tears  would  come 
welling  to  her  eyes.  Luigi  Amato 
regretted  in  an  instant  the  harsh- 
ness of  his  tone,  and  was  really 
grieved  to  see  that  poor  sensitive 
Lily  was  pained. 

'  Lily,  darling,  I  am  so  sorry,'  he 
said.  '  It  was  cruel  of  me  to  speak 
as  I  did.  You  know  I  would  not 
hurt  you  for  the  world.' 

'  Never  mind  his  sarcasms,  Lily, 
dear — I  must  call  you  so  now,'  said 
Mrs.  Dayrell,  with  as  much  ease  as 
she  could  muster;  '  he  thinks  it 
clever,  but  he  never  means  what  he 
says.' 

Touched  with  the  frankness  of 
Luigi's  apology  and  the  kind  and 
unusual  tone  in  which  his  sister 
spoke,  Lily  was  all  smiles  again  in 
an  instant,  and,  notwithstanding 
what  she  had  overheard,  she  con- 
soled herself  inwardly  with  the  old 
and  uncomfortable  adagej  that '  list- 
eners never  hear  any  good  of  them- 
selves,' and  took  the  desired  turn 


382 


Lily's  Loss. 


round  tlie  prirden  with  Arthur  Day- 
re  11  "s  wife. 

'  Will,  my  wortliy  brotlicr,'  said 
Mrs.  Artlnir  Dixyrtll,  Inter  on  in  tlio 
oveninp,  wlicn  ho  was  conducting 
her  to  tiie  carriaj^o,  to  go  liouie— for 
Artliur  had  found  some  excuse,  n  it 
altogether  relishing  the  idea  of  a 
gnnUn  party  at  that  house  under 
altered  circunistixnces, —  '  how  do 
you  think  1  have  l>chaved  on  tho 
whole?  Idon't  think  so  very  badly  ! 
But  I  warn  you,'  she  ailded,  not 
giving  hiui  time  for  a  reply,  '  I  don't 
honestly  like  her,  and  you  must  not 
tx|X)ct  me  to  go  tlinmgh  this  kind 
of  thing  every  day  in  the  week  when 
you  como  back,  for  1  can't  stand  it.' 

A  fortnight  afterwards  Lily  Bram- 
wcll  became  tho  wife  of  Luigi 
Amato;  and  within  a  very  few  hours 
of  their  wedding  the  happy  couple 
were  on  their  way  to  Florence. 

CHAPTER  m. 

Six  months  passed  away,  and  still 
Luigi  Amato  and  his  wile  gavj  no 
signs  of  returning  to  Bristol.  In 
tact  there  were  wliispers  that  in  all 
probability  Amato  would  remain  for 
some  time  longer  where  ho  wa';.  To 
the  initiated  it  became  known  that 
he  had  lx;en  engaged  in  some  very 
daring  speculations,  which  had  not 
turned  out  quite  so  well  as  he  had 
anticipated;  and,  indeed,  there  was 
a  report  that  the  Italian  hou.so  would 
iianily  weather  tho  storm.  Tho 
various  communications  were  made 
to  Arthur  Dayrell  by  foreign  cor- 
respon<lent.s,  and  through  him  they 
reached  tho  ears  of  Lily  Bnimwell's 
father.  Mr.  Braiawell  was  naturally 
nervous  on  his  daughter's  account, 
and  ho  wrote  to  her,  in  order  to 
elicit,  if  po.ssible,  some  confirmation 
or  denial  of  the  rumours.  However, 
the  fears  of  all  were  alleviated  by  tho 
sudden  reappearance  at  Bristol  of 
Luigi  Amato  and  his  wife,  at  the  end 
of  a  year  from  tho  time  they  had 
quitted  tho  great  conuucrcial  capital 
of  the  west  of  Kngland. 

Lily  had  Ren  kept  quite  in  the 
dark  on  the  su'ject  of  her  husband's 
commercial  tran.siictions,  an<l  thrre- 
foro  she  had  neither  gfKxl  nor  bad 
news  for  her  father.  With  a  woman's 
quick   instinct,  however,    she  had 


guessed  tliat  matters  were  not  going 
quite  smoothly  ;  but,  with  a  woman's 
natural  good  sense,  she  said  nothing, 
trusting  if  it  were  as  she  anticipated, 
that  there  wcmld  be  a  favourai)lo 
turn  of  tho  wheel  of  fortune,  and 
that  all  woidd  eventually  go  well. 

Tho  Amatos  had  been  back  in 
England  al)out  a  month  when  one 
morning  Lily  was  disturlied  in  her 
morning's  work  by  the  ajipearance 
of  a  servant  who  haniled  her  a  letter. 

It  was  in  the  handwriting  of  her 
sister-in-law.  She  o])eneil  tlie  letter. 
She  had  hardly  read  tho  first  few 
lines  Ufore  her  eyes  swam  and  her 
lips  became  pale.  She  trembled 
violently,  but  making  an  effort  to 
command  herself,  stie  rang  the  bell 
and  ordered  the  carriage  round  im- 
mediately. She  gave  tlio  coachman 
orders  to  drive  to  Mr.  Arthur  Day- 
rell's  house,  which  was  charmingly 
situated  in  the  picturesque  village 
of  Frcnchay,  a  few  miles  out  of 
Bri.stol.  Arthur  Dayrell  was  alone 
in  the  room  to  which  Lily  was  con- 
ducted. She  could  see  by  his  face 
that  he  was  as  much  agitated  as  she 
was.  He  had  got  on  what  she  used 
])Iayfully  to  call  his  'business  face' 
in  the  old  days.  But  he  came  to- 
wards her  and  led  her  to  a  seat. 
She  sat  down,  but  he  remained 
standing,  leaning  one  arm  against 
the  mantelpiece. 

'lean  guess  by  your  face  what 
you  would  say,'  said  he,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice,  '  but  you  must  not  ask 
impossibilities.  I  have  little  power 
to  save  your  husband.  I  have  re- 
ceived intelligence,  private  intelli- 
gence, rememUr,  from  Florence 
that  Amato's  trickery  has  Ixien  dis- 
covered. Tho  particulars  of  the 
case  have  lK;cn  telegraj)licd  over 
here,  and  at  this  very  moment  ho 
may  be  in  the  hands  of  justice.' 

'  But  if  he  has  not  been  arrested 
you  can  save  him  ?' 

'  I  don't  tliink  I  would  if  I  could.' 

Lily  Bramwell  covered  her  face 
with  h(;r  hands,  and  shrank  from  the 
touch  of  Arthur  Dayrell  when  ho 
came  towards  her  to  give  her  com- 
fort. 

'  Oh  !  Arthur,'  she  said,  '  T  did  not 
think  so  badly  of  you.  You  havo 
wronged  mo  enough,  heaven  knows, 
without   bringing  lurthor  disgiaco 


Lilys  Loss. 


383 


n(jt  only  upon  me  but  upon  the  man 
I  has'o  married.' 

'  I  have  wronged  you,  Lily,  I 
know  it,  and  am  suffering  for  my 
sin  by  a  life  of  utter  misery.  I 
would  go  to  the  end  of  the  world  to 
save  you  further  pain,  but  this  man, 
what  shall  I  say  of  him?  Can  I 
spare  him,  coward  and  traitor  as  he 
is,  now  that  I  have  got  him  in  my 
grasp  ?' 

'  My  husband !  How  can  he  have 
injured  youV 

'  Injured  me  ?  that  is  a  mild  term, 
Lily,  for  the  wrongs  your  husband 
has  inflicted  on  me.  I  have  kept 
my  secret  until  now,  and  have  suf- 
fered tortures  heaven  knows  how 
terrible.  I  can  keep  the  secret  no 
longer;  you  must  hear  everything.' 

Lily  uncovered  her  face  and  looked 
wonderingly  towards  Arthur,  who 
had  gone  back  again  to  the  mantel- 
piece, where  he  remained  pale  and 
immovable  as  a  statue. 

*  You  cannot  have  forgotten,  Lily, 
that  terrible  time  when  the  story  of 
the  impending  ruin  of  my  father's 
house  was  in  everybody's  mouth 
here  in  Bristol— that  time  when  I 
kept  away  from  you  because  I  was 
in  disgrace,  and  because  I  had  no 
wish  to  burden  you  with  my  sorrow. 
It  was  true  that  we  were  very  nearly 
ruined.  It  was  true  that  had  ruin 
and  disgrace  fallen  upon  us  it  would 
have  been  all  through  me.  Mine 
would  have  been  the  hand  to  bring 
dishonour  upon  my  old  father  and 
his  children.  Would  that  I  had 
never  listened  to  the  treacherous 
voice  of  this  disgraceful  man!  But 
I  did  listen  to  him,  and  forged  the 
very  fetters  of  a  life-long  despair. 
At  the  time  to  which  I  am  alluding 
Luigi  Amato  was  a  comparative 
stranger  to  me.  We  had  met  occa- 
sionally, but  merely  as  very  distant 
acquaintances.  But  this  man  had 
seen  you,  Lily,  and  he  loved  you 
with  all  the  wild  fury  of  his  southern 
nature.  He  dogged  my  footsteps, 
and  I  could  not  free  myself  of  him. 
He  took  me  entirely  off  my  guard, 
and,  like  a  fool  that  I  was,  I  believed 
him  to  be  sincere.  I  took  his  ad- 
vice and  engaged  the  house  in  a 
ruinous  speculation.  Step  by  step 
he  dragged  me  down  merely  to  lift 
me  up  with  his  own  hands.    He 


had  but  one  object  in  view,  and  that 
was  to  prevent  my  marriage  with 
you.  When  he  knew  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  a  precipice  he  came  and 
offei'ed  me  assistance.  I  was  en- 
tirely in  his  hands,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  could  ruin  me  and  us  all.  He 
saved  us,  for  I  accepted  his  offer, 
but  the  security  I  gave  for  his  filthy 
loan  was  the  happiness  of  my  life. 
I  promised  him  I  would  marry  his 
sister,  and  then  he  knew  that  he  was 
safe.    You  know  the  rest.' 

*  Oh !  Arthur,  say  no  more,'  sobbed 
Lily, '  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  it.' 

'And  this  is  the  man,'  he  conti' 
nued,  bitterly,  'that  you  would  have 
me  save.  If  you  only  knew  the  life 
I  have  led  these  years  past.' 

'  You  have  suffered  terribly  in- 
deed, and  I  hardly  dare  beg  your 
forgiveness  for  him;  but,  Arthur, 
he  is  my  husband,  and  I  must  stand 
by  him  to  the  last.' 

'  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?' 

'Save  him  and  me!' 

*  Oh !  Lily,  what  would  I  not  do 
for  you,  my  first,  last  love.  For 
your  sake  the  prize  must  slip  through 
my  fingers,  and  the  hour  of  venge- 
ance I  have  prayed  for  must  reap 
no  fruit.  I  will  save  you,  Lily,  and 
your  husband  must  cling  to  your 
skirts.' 

Arthur  Dayrell's  voice  was  quite 
softened  now.  He  sat  down  by  Lily 
Bramwell's  side,  and  taking  her 
hand  in  his  he  said, '  There  is  a  ship 
in  port  which  is  jvist  free  of  her 
cargo  of  sugar.  She  sails  at  day- 
break for  the  West  Indies.  I  know 
the  captain  of  the  vessel  well,  and 
whatever  favour  I  ask  of  him  he 
will  perform.  If  I  beg  him  to  take 
your  husband  on  board  and  assist 
him  to  escape  he  will  do  so.' 

'And  you  will  do  this?' 

'If  I  facilitate  your  husband's 
escape  would  you  follow  him  ?' 

'  Is  it  not  my  duty  to  be  ever  at 
his  side  ?' 

'  Not  when  a  husband  has  behaved 
as  yours  has  done.  He  is  unworthy 
of  you.' 

'I  will  not  go  with  him.' 

'  Then  part  of  the  debt  is  paid  off.' 

Arthur  Dayrell  went  to  a  writing- 
table,  and  wrote  out  the  instructions 
which  Luigi  Amato  was  to  follow. 
When  he  had  finished  he  gave  them 


384 


Lihjs  Loss, 


to  Lily,  promising  that  ho  wtuilil 
himself  go  down  to  Bristol  and  give 
directions  to  the  captain  of  the 
'SantiiFc'' 

'  litunemlKT,  he  must  he  on  board 
to-night.' 

•  lie  shall.  Thank  you,  and  God 
bless  you  for  what  you  have  done!" 

When  Lily  arrived  at  home  she 
waited  in  anxiety  for  her  Imsband's 
return.  Hour  after  hour  |)a8.scd 
away,  and  still  she  sat  motionless, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  clock  in  her 
little  sittitig-room. 

At  last  she  heard  his  footstep^!, 
an<l  knew  that  he  was  so  far  safe. 
He  came  into  tlie  room  and  threw 
himself  into  a  chair. 

'  Oh !  Luigi,  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
safe.' 

'Safe!  Do  you  know  all,  then? 
I  thought  I  might  liave  sjiared  you 
this  pain.  But  there  is  no  time  to 
be  lost.  The  news  has  already  been 
telegraphed  to  London,  and  I  am 
not  safe  for  an  instant.  The  worst 
of  it  is  that  I  don't  see  there  is  a 
chance  of  escape.  What  shall  wedo?' 

'  There  is  one  chance  for  you,' 
said  Lily,  bravely.  '  Read  what  is 
written  here.' 

'It  is  Arthur  Uayrell's  hatul- 
writiug!  You  don't  know  all.  That 
man  would  kill  ine  if  ho  could.' 

'  He  has  promised  me  to  save  you, 
and  ho  will  keep  his  word.' 

' Promised  you  to  save  me!  And 
on  what  terms,  may  I  ask  ?  Has  he 
been  here  in  my  absence  bargaining 
with  you  ?  Has  he  dared  to  speak 
thus  to  you  ?' 

'Arthur  Dayrell  has  not  been 
here.     I  have  been  to  him.' 

'  I  will  receive  no  favour  at  his 
hands.' 


'Are  you  mad,  Luigi?'  said  his 
wife,  with  energy,  '  to  K))cak  like 
this  at  such  a  time?  Heaven  knows 
that  man  has  suffered  sutliciently  at 
your  hands.  Como,  let  us  both  for- 
ge t  the  past.  Your  wife  shall  uit 
upbraid  yon  in  your  hour  of  sorrow. 
For  my  .sake  you  will  ol»ey  these 
in-;tructions,  will  you  not?  It  is 
butter  perhajjs  that  wo  should 
p.irt.' 

'Part!    Lily,   that   is    an    awful 
word.     Sly  love  for  you  has  made 
mo  sin  as  I  have  done ;  is  there  no 
repentance?    May  I  never  hojie  that 
you  will  follow  mo  and  sweeten  my 
exile?' 
'  I  can  promise  nothing.' 
'  But  you  will  Angive  me?' 
'  Women  have  forgiven  who  have 
suffered  mor(j^  terribly  than  I — more 
terribly  than  I    shall    suffer.     God 
grant  that  you  will  sincerely  reficnt, 
and  that  he  will  be  merciful  to  you 
during  the  life  that  is  before  you.' 

They  parted ;  and  when  the '  Santa 
Fe'  was  being  towed  out  of  the  Avon 
Lily  was  still  tossing  in  her  l)ed 
alone  witli  the  first  deep  grief  she 
ha  1  known.  She  got  to  sleep  at 
last,  and  then  the  sails  of  the  ship 
were  unfurled,  and  Luigi  Amato 
w.is  safe  from  the  hands  of  his  pur- 
suers. 

*  *  *  • 

The  good  ship  'Santa  Fe'  never 
put  into  harbour  again.  Some 
months  afterwards  a  bottlo  was 
picked  up  by  a  peasant  on  the  coast 
of  Ireland.  In  it  was  a  slip  of 
paper  on  which  the  following  words 
were  written.  'Ship  sinking  fast. 
No  chance  of  escape.  God  have 
mercy  on  us  all  \—L.  A.' 


'i  'A.      .      111.  I    ,    I    >t-  I      I      'III 


I. II  :i.  I 

II I 


liia»i!  l.y  I.1..II.  .  '      11 

HOW    I    SET    ABOUT    PAYING     MY     DEBTS; 
AN    r)XK)KI)    blOKV 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


MAY,    1867. 


HOW  I  SET  ABOUT  PAYING  MY  DEBTS. 
^11  ^jrfDrif  ^taxv. 


[OW  my  dear  Frank,'  said  my 

father,  replenishing  his  glass 
the  while  with  some  very  particular 
port  the  old  butler  had  brooght  out 
that  evening  in  my  honour, '  as  you 
start  lor  Oxford  early  to-morrow,  I 
may  as  well  say  now  what  little  1 
wish  to  say  to  you  respecting  the 
important  step  you  are  about  taking 
in  entering  university  life.' 

I  took  some  filberts  and  listened 
attentively. 

'  The  social  advantages  of  the 
university,'  continued  my  father, 
'are,  I  hold,  of  very  great  import- 
ance ;  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
sacrifice  its  educational  advantages 
to — to — it's  ahem  ! ' 

*0h,  no!  certainly  not,'  I  inter- 
posed (somewhat  vaguely,  perhaps). 

'  So  I  shall  expect  you  to  take 
your  degree  in  the  usual  course : 
if  as  a  mere  pass-man,  well  and 
good ;  if  with  honours,  all  the  better. 
Although  you  will  not  have  to  earn 
your  bread  (in  the  accepted  use  of 
the  term),  you  will  find  such  ad- 
vantages of  use.' 

I  assented  to  all  this,  inwardly 
deriving  no  small  consolation  from 
the  fact  that  I  should  not  be  obliged 
to  encounter  any  examination  at 
once,  as  my  matriculation  had  al- 
ready been  triumphantly  accom- 
plished. 

'  I  shall  allow  you  500?.  a  year 
and  the  expenses  of  a  horse,'  added 
my  father  ;  '  and  I  shall  give  orders 
for  you  to  be  kept  supplied  with 
sound  and  wholesome  port.  On 
this  I  shall  expect  .you  to  live  with- 
out incurring  any  debts.  If  you  do 
run  into  debt,  you  must  discharge 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXV.- 


all  such  liabilities  out  of  your  own 
earnings.' 

One  of  my  father's  great  charac- 
teristics was  firmness.  His  was 
genuine  firmness,  and  it  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  its  weak  counter- 
feit, obstinacy.  I  knew  that  he 
meant  what  he  had  said  about  my 
paying  all  debts  by  my  own  earn- 
ings, and  that  it  had  not  been  added 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  giving 
weight  to  his  warning,  or  season- 
mg  his  advice  with  the  condiment 
called  '  solemn  chaff.'  Of  course  I 
had  no  intention  then  of  incurring 
debts  ;  but  I  felt  that  I  should  have 
to  accept  the  alternative  if  I  did. 

A  few  words  shall  dismiss  my 
university  experiences.  live  hun- 
dred a  year,  with  the  expenses  of 
a  horse  (to  this  a  servant  was  added), 
and  a  gratuitous  supply  of  port 
wine,  seemed  in  contemplation  a 
mine  of  wealth  that  would  be  fully 
equal  to  all  my  necessities.  So, 
relying  on  the  iDlenitude  of  my 
resources,  I  started  a  second  horse, 
and  even  a  third  during  the  hunting- 
season.  I  liked  (in  common  with 
all  other  Oxonians  I  ever  made  ac- 
quaintance with)  easy-chairs  and 
luxurious  furniture.  I  was  fond  of 
looking  at  handsomely-bound  books, 
if  I  did  not  read  them  very  care- 
fully; and  good  pictures  I  had 
quite  a  passion  for.  In  music  I  took 
great  delight ;  so  a  grand  pianoforte, 
hired  at  a  rate  that  would  have 
paid  its  price  once  a  year,  formed  a 
conspicuous  feature  in  my  rooms. 
All  these  likings  (and  many  others 
of  an  expensive  natui'e  might  be 
added),  together  with  a  great  taste 
2  0 


88G 


IlotD  I  sd  about  Paying  my  Dihta. 


fur  ])lcasant  and  gonial  society,  suf- 
ticeil  to  ix'ikIlt  my  carter  an  expen- 
sive one.  One  tliinj^  I  can  con- 
bcientiously  aver:  it"  money  was 
wixsted  tliouglillessly  on  capricious 
wliinis  anil  i)leaMnvs,  it  was  not 
waiitetl  on  any  i)nrsi!its  that  could  be 
condemned  us  vicious.  The  result 
of  all  this  ex|)enditurc  luay  bo 
easily  guessed. 

I  was  never  i)loughcd ;  but  in 
those  jxriodical  encounters  with 
the  examiners  the  university  rules 
obliged  me  to  engage  in  I  may  say 
that  the  former  always  died  game. 
Never  shall  I  forget  those  last  final 
rounds,  conductetl  across  that  awful 
green  table,  when  all  oiie's  mental 
pugilistic  science  was  brought  into 
l)lay  to  make  a  very  partial  know- 
ledge reach  the  whole  length  of  a 
subject;  while  enthusiastic  friends, 
with  mistaken  kindness,  looked  on  in 
breathless  silence,  and  encouraged 
me  with  smiling  glances  or  ima- 
giiiary  pats  on  the  back,  as  I  turned 
towards  them  with  a  sickly  smile  of 
recognition,  and  hollow  pretence  of 
l)eing  quite  at  my  case. 

But  tiic  time  came  when  all  these 
ordeals  had  been  safely  passed,  and 
1  was  going  to  '  put  on  my  gown ' 
next  degree  day.  So  I  sent  round 
to  collect  my  various  bills,  deter- 
mining to  be  busine.-s-like,  and  to 
arrive  at  an  exact  knowledge  of  my 
position.  After  some  persuasioii, 
the  coy  tradesmen  sent  in  their  bills, 
not  to  a!»k  for  payment,  but  pledges 
as  it  were  ot  their  contidence  in  my 
honour  and  solvency.  After  two  or 
three  efforts  in  addition  (con)pound) 
that  brought  each  time  varying  re- 
sults, I  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  1  owed  nearly  800/.  My  father's 
words  recurred  to  me,  not  by  any 
niejins  lor  the  first  lime,  and  I  set 
myself  to  wondering  how  I  could 
earn  it.  Literature — the  writing  of 
a  successful  novel  that  should  ac- 
comj)li.sh  Iho  whole  malter  as  by 
the  magic  01  a  fairy'.s  wand— was 
the  first  idea  that  presented  il.selt, 
as  I  believe  it  docs  to  very  many 
others  under  similar  circumstances. 
I  di.smii-sed  the  thought  a.^  imprac- 
ticable. A  brighter  one  .succeeded. 
I  would  pet  a  tutorshi]).  ^Many 
men  of  my  acquaintance  had  done 
60.    Certainly    tbcy  were   usually 


honours  men,  and  not  heirs  to 
baronetcies  and  ten  or  tv/cnty  thou- 
sand a  year.  But  I  niight  seek  one 
in  the  guise  of  an  ordinary  B.A.,  and 
none  need  know  that  my  pros|)ects 
in  life  point(  d  to  the  possession  of  a 
very  old  title,  and  far-spreading 
estates  in  two  western  counties,  not 
to  mention  a  street  in  Mayfair  and 
a  house  in  Belgravia. 

'But  you  will  want  testimonials, 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,' 
said  Hat  field,  of  Baliol,  with  whom 
I  was  discussing  my  plans  over  a 
cigar. 

'  Grantham,  my  coach,  will 
manage  that  for  me,  I  have  no 
doubt,'  I  answered. 

'  Well,  if  you  get  any  decent 
thing,  or  kce]i  it  for  two  months, 
I'm  in  for  a  plough,'  ho  observed. 

Bearing  these  words  in  mind,  it 
was  with  a  feeling  of  justifiable 
pride  that,  a  few  mornings  after,  1 
carried  some  halfadozen  letters  in 
my  hand  to  his  rooms,  where  I  was 
going  to  breakfast.  I  had  called  at 
the  Unien  on  my  way,  to  look  at  the 
letter- rack;  and  I  must  confess  to 
a  feeling  of  con.<^iderable  surprise 
when  I  beheld  there  sundry  mis- 
sives bearing  the  mystic  initials  I 
liad  ad()i)ted  in  my  advertisement 
in  the  '  Guardian.' 

'By  return  of  post,  too!'  I  in- 
wardly exclaimed.  'Parents  must 
take  the  bait  very  easily,  or  tutors 
must  be  scarce.'  I  hurried  away, 
as  I  was  late,  without  opening  them, 
reserving  this  pleasing  task  for 
Hatfield's  rooms  and  presence. 

'  Is  it  a  dun  that  I  sec  before 
me?'  cried  that  gentleman,  as  I 
entered,  letters  in  hand. 

'  Behold  the  triumphs  of  adver- 
tising and  education  1'  I  rejoined, 
.showing  the  letters  in  triumph. 

Alas!  they  were  all  circulars 
from  agents  who  would  beha])py  to 
))lace  X.  Q.'s  name  on  their  registers, 
&c.,  &c. 

I  looked  rather  blank,  as  I  had 
no  fancy  lor  jjio.*^ touting  my  starch 
after  emi)l.>yment  in  this  manner. 

'  There  is  no  harm  in  it,  you 
know,'  said  Ilatiield  ;  '  but,  oi  coursi', 
\mless  a  man  is  ail  honours  he 
cannot  pick  and  choose,  and  jou 
must  take  what  they  send  you,  or 
get  nothing  at  all.' 


How  I  set  about  Paying  my  Debts. 


387 


But  I  was  not  reduced  to  this; 
for  Grantham,  to  wliom  I  had  con- 
tided  luy  plan,  called  at  my  rooms 
during  tlie  <hiy,  and  otfcred  a  so- 
Jution  of  the  difficulty. 

'  If  you  are  really  in  earnest  about 
this,  I  think  1  know  of  a  thing  that 
will  exactly  suit  you.  It  is  to  pre- 
pare a  young  fellow  for  Oxford. 
They  want  a  man  who  is  a  gentle- 
man, up  to  the  work,  and  fond  of 
country  sports,  hunting,  &c.  But 
what  would  your  fatiier  say  to  your 
taking  a  private  tutorship '?  Does 
he  know  of  your  plan  ?' 

'  It  is  the  result  of  an  agreement 
between  ns  respecting  my  running 
into  debt,'  I  explained.  'I  shall 
write  and  tell  him  what  I  have  done 
when  I  have  undertaken  an  engage- 
ment.' 

'But,  if  Sir  Grahame  objects, 
wonld  you  throw  a  place  up '?' 

'He  would  not  allow  me  to  act 
dishonourably,'  I  answered;  'and 
were  I  engaged  I  must  accept  the 
consequences.' 

'  Very  well :  if  you  are  determined 
to  risk  it,  I  can  offer  you  a  tutor- 
ship in  the  family  of  a  General 
Gawston,  of  Gawston  Flats,  Norfolk, 
where  you  will  have  one  pupil  to 
look  after,  be  resident  in  the  house, 
and  receive  a  salary  at  the  rate  of 
150?.  a  year.  They  are  in  want  of 
a  man  immediately.' 

I  caught  at  the  bait,  and  in  return 
it  caught  me.  My  father,  to  whom 
<  I  wrote  at  once,  to  communicate 
my  having  entered  into  this  engage- 
ment, replied  that,  had  he  been 
consulted  prior  to  my  binding  my- 
self, he  would  not  have  consented 
to  such  a  plan ;  but  that  now,  as  the 
engagement  was  already  furmed,  I 
must  fulfil  it;  at  all  events,  until 
another  tutor  could  be  found.  I 
bad  been  imprudent  in  accepting  a 
situation  not  befitting  my  station ; 
but  I  must  now  abide  by  my  im- 
prudence, &c. 

There  was  one  thing  in  favour  ot 
my  concealing  my  real  position  in 
life  whde  at  Gaw.-ton  Flats.  My 
father,  once  Sir  Grahame  Liuxton, 
had  several  years  before  assiimed 
the  additional  name  of  Penreston  on 
coming  into  a  large  property,  left 
by  a  distant  relative,  on  the  con- 
dition ot  bis  taking  tlie  name.    This 


condition  did  not  bind  the  children, 
however ;  and  so  my  sisters  and 
myself  were  Luxtons,  as  we  pre- 
ferred retaining  the  name  of  our 
ancestors,  a  more  ancientand  honour- 
able one  too,  by-the-by,  as  my  father 
always  took  care  to  iui^jress  on  us. 

I  determined  not  to  visit  Luxton 
Court  before  leaving  for  Gawston 
Flats,  as  I  must  confess  that,  now 
my  plan  of  getting  a  tutorship  was 
accomplished,  I  felt  an  unacknow- 
ledged regret  that  I  had  so  easily 
succeeded;  and  I  sometimes  wished 
I  had  set  about  paying  my  debts 
in  a  different  way.  Feeling  that 
the  home  air  and  style  at  Luxton 
would  hardly  suit  me  under  the 
circumstances,  and  possibly  fearing 
some  banter  from  my  father,  I  left 
Oxford  as  soon  as  I  could  ;  and  in  a 
few  days  I  was  driving  across  the 
country  (flat  and  uninteresting  to 
my  western  eyes)  that  led  from 
Mudhole  Station  to  Gawston  Flats. 
On  my  arrival  about  half-past  five 
in  the  evening,  I  was  ushered  at 
once  to  my  bedroom",  and  I  sat  down 
by  the  acceptable  fire  to  have  a 
good  warm.  All  at  once  the  thought 
came  into  my  mind,  '  How  about 
going  down  to  dinner  ?  Is  the  tutor 
usually  there  ?  Does  he  wear  full 
dress  ?  The  servant  said  notliing 
about  dinner  time.'  Solving  these 
questions  by  the  reflection  that  a 
tutor  was  still  a  gentleman,  and 
feeling  hungry,  I  determined  to 
dress  and  go  down.  So  I  rang  for 
my  portmanteau,  and  found  that 
Colonel  Gawston  dined  at  seven. 

It  was  dark  when  I  had  arrived, 
but  a  hurried  glance  had  shown  me 
that  the  place  was  evidently  a  gentle- 
man's ;  and  this  impression  was 
confirmed  when  I  Avandered  down 
about  a  quarter  to  seven,  and  beat 
about  among  some  doors  in  the  hall 
for  that  one  which  belonged  to  the 
drawing-room.  Taking  a  Inckyshot 
at  one  with  a  white  handle,  I  entered 
a  large,  well-lighted  room.  A  lady, 
not  unpleasant  looking,  but  dressed 
very  severely  in  black  velvet,  rose 
trom  a  chair  near  the  fire. 

'Mr.  Luxton,  I  presume,'  she 
said,  rising. 

I  bowed,  deriving  some  comfort 
from  the  fact  that  she  betrayed  no 
surprise  at  seeing  me. 

3  0  2 


388 


ILnc  I  Fct  about  Paying  my  Ddts. 


'  Colonel  f!awston  lias  only  just 
rome  in,  or  ho  wouM  Inwo  kcii  you 
before,'  slie  ("ontiuiKMl,  after  shaking 
hnntls  with  nio.  '  Von  uinst  have 
hiul  a  coM  j)nri;cy;  i>r.iy  takt'  that 
chair  hy  tlie  fire.' 

I  dill  so,  and  wo  chat  tod  on  very 
Oft«iIy  until  tl'c  master  >  t'  the  house 
.ioincd  us  jn^t  aa  dinner  was  hu- 
nounced.  lie  proeted  me  very 
pleasantly —  perhaps  just  a  little 
stiffly— and  tlien  1  pave  ^Irs. 
Cawstou  my  arm,  and  we  went  in 
to  dinner.  I  cannot  say  I  felt  quite 
at  my  ease  in  my  ucw  ]iositi  m ;  but 
this  did  not  interfere  with  ray 
apjx^tito,  and  dinner  iiasscd  off  with 
sutticient  conversation  going  on 
lietvvcen  the  courses. 

'  Mr.  Luxtou,  you  will  take  some 
more  port?"  said  Colonel  Gawston, 
as  he  filled  his  gias-,  and  drew  his 
chair  near  the  fire,  on  the  departure 
of  his  wife  for  the  drawing-room. 
I  followed  his  example  in  each 
respect. 

'  \N'o  have  never  had  a  resident 
tutor  before,'  he  continued:  'and 
we  are  anxious  to  make  you  as 
comfortable  as  wo  can.  We  shall 
always  bo  glad  of  your  company  at 
dinner  at  seven,  if  you  prefer  dining 
late,  but  we  hope  you  will  quite 
consult  your  own  inclination  aiiout 
tluit.  i'uur  pupil  you  will  see  when 
wc  go  to  the  drawing-room,  I  ex- 
pect, lie  remaineil  out  longer  than 
I  did.  T()-morn)W  wo  can  arrange 
further  details,  as  may  seem  neces- 
sary.' 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first 
morning  over  tho  books  with  my 
iiew  i)upil.  Ho  was  a  very  nice  boy, 
but  with  a  far  too  conversational 
tendency,  I  thouglit,  as  I  tried  hard 
to  keep  his  mind  (and  my  own) 
fixed  on  the  work  in  hand.  lie 
would  break  off  stuldeiily  from  some 
heiirt rending  rnXay  t-yw  ]iassngo  to 
ask  mo  if  I  had  kept  hoi-ses  at 
Oxford,  or  if  the  proctors  had  ever 
l)een  down  on  nic.  Once  or  twice  I 
found  mys<If  trijiping,  and  only  too 
ready  to  run  on  into  the  unclassical 
conversation  such  questions  sug- 
gested, while  Horace  and  Euripides 
lay  open,  but  forgotten  l)eforo  us. 

'  Florence  is  coming  this  evening.' 
he  said  one  morning  about  a  weiik 
after  my  arrival,  as  he  was  finding 


the  place  (always  a  long  business), 
before  conuuencing  to  translate. 

'Who?'  I  asked. 

'  riorence ;  my  sister,  you  know. 
It  is  always  jollier  when  she  is  liere. 
You  ought  to  sec  her  ride.  Most 
girls  are  great  muffs,  I  think  ;  but 
she  isn't  a  l>it.' 

I  litard  a  little  more  of  Florence, 
but  I  ditl  not  see  her  until  dinner- 
time. We  had  taken  our  scats  when 
she  entered,  and  hurriedly  took  a 
chair  oppo.<<ite  me.  I\Jrs.  Gawston 
murmured  the  customary  words, 
and  we  bowed  across  the  table.  The 
converfation  was  general,  as  our 
party  was  so  small.  Miss  Gawston, 
who  1  found  was  grown  up.  and  not 
tho  somewhat  hoydenish  young  lady 
her  brother's  description  had  led 
me  to  expect,  joined  in  it  freely,  and 
wc  found  several  things  to  say  to 
one  another  across  tho  table.  I 
thought  her  extremely  pleasnnt,  I 
renienilier,  and  remarkably  pretty. 
She  seemed  al)out  nineteen,  and  had 
just  returned,  1  found,  to  mv  horror, 
from  a  visit  to  .some  friends  in  the 
west. 

'  My  daugldcr  tells  mo  she  met 
some  Miss  J.uxtons  while  she  was 
away.  Arc  they  any  relations  of 
yours  ?'  asked  Mrs.  Gauston.  I 
may  say  tiiat  that  lady  and  1  were 
on  very  pK  asant  terms  ;  but  I  had 
every  evening  to  encounter  the 
severity  of  black  velvet  (I  used  to 
wonder  whether  .she  had  but  one 
(Ire.ss),  and  to  feel  my  teeth  on  edge 
if  by  any  chance  my  hand  touched 
lier  robe  as  we  marched  in  to 
dinner. 

'Tho  daughters  of  Sir  Grahame 
Pcnreston/exitlained  Mi.-s  Gawston. 

I  felt  very  red  as  I  explained  that 
they  (bemg  really  my  sisters;  were 
connections,  and  then  1  made  a 
vigorous  otlort  to  change  ttio  con- 
versation. 

As  the  Colonrjl  and  I  entered  tho 
drawing-room  Miss  (Jawston,  seatetl 
at  tho  pianoforte,  was  plnying  tho 
l.<ir<i<>  .ifiiif-sioiKi/'j,  iiom  IJeethoven's 
Second  rianolorte  Sonata.  '  ( ),  pray 
do  rot  stop,'  I  cried,  as  she  jiauscd 
on  our  entrance ;  '  tliat  movement 
is  more  tl  an  bcautilul.'  Tlius 
presKe<l,pheco!ilinued.  then  on  tottio 
Sr/if  ,zo,au(i  lastly  the  brilliant  /.Omio 
in  splendid  style.    J  was  dcligbtcil. 


How  I  set  about  Paying  my  Debts. 


389 


'  You  are  fond  of  music,'  slio  said. 

'Very.' 

'  You  play,  perhaps,  or  sing  ?' 

'I  play  tlie  violiu,  and  I  sing  to  a 
certain  extent.'  I  was  longing  for 
lier  to  ask  me  to  bring  iny  violin 
down.  I  saw  a  musie-volume  close 
by  labelled  'Violin  and  Pianoforte.' 
Mrs.  Gawston  sat  funereal,  sta- 
tuesque, and  immovable.  Colonel 
(Jawston  was  asleep,  and  his  son 
reading  Mayne  Eeid's  something  or 
other.  Miss  Gawston  was  tritiing 
with  the  keys,  possibly  she  ft^ared 
asking  the  tutor  such  a  thing.  I 
was  desperate.  'Shall  I  fetch  my 
violin  and  music,'  I  said.  Without 
waiting  for  an  answer  I  went.  The 
next  moment  we  had  commenced, 
and  during  the  evening  we  played 
together,  and  then,  emboldened  by 
this  beginning,  we  sang  together. 
What  happens  once  usually  hap- 
pens twice,  and  the  next  evening  we 
occupied  ourselves  in  the  same  way. 
Not  always  only  in  the  evening 
though,  but  many  a  stray  half-hour 
during  the  clay  we  found  time  for  a 
little  music.  Then,  also,  she  rode 
very  well ;  and  as  her  brother  and  I 
rode  almost  daily,  we  often  found 
ourselves  taking  the  same  direction ; 
60  altogether  I  saw  a  good  deal  of 
Miss  Gawiston.  Need  I  tell  the  re- 
sult ?  Before  a  fortnight  was  over 
I  was  deeply  in  love,  and  my  inten- 
tion of  recommending  Colonel  Gaw- 
ston  to  look  out  for  another  tutor 
was  unfulfilled.  We  often  met  be- 
fore dinner  in  the  library,  where 
there  was  a  large  Japanese  screen 
that  shut  out  the  door.  Moving 
very  slowly  towards  the  room  one 
evening  near  dinner  time,  I  over- 
heard some  words  that  made  me 
pause  before  entering,  and  cough 
violently,  if  not  affectedly,  in  order 
that  my  presence  might  be  known. 

'  Ahem !  my  dear ' — the  voice  was 
Colonel  Gavvst(  yn's — 'don't  you  think, 
my  dear,  that  Mr.  Luxton  is— ahem 
— rather,  just  a  little,  perhaps  not 
prudently,  intimate  with  Florence?' 

'  I  have  thought  so,  certainly,'  re- 
sponded his  wife;  'and  I  was  very 
glad  this  morning  to  receive  an  in- 
Aiiatiun  from  Lady  Fitz-Pedigry  for 
!ier,  as  it  will  take  her  away  at  once. 
1  have  accepted  it  for  hei*,  and  I 
thuught  of  going  with  her  to  town 


to-morrow  or  the  day  after  to  see 
Madaine  Valenciennes,  as  she ' 

At  this  moment  1  interrupted  the 
good  lady  by  entering  the  room,  dis- 
concerting her  rather  by  my  sudden 
appearance. 

The  words  I  had  overheard  deter- 
mined me  to  learn  my  fate  from 
Miss  Gawston  before  she  left,  as  I 
felt  that,  under  any  circumstances, 
it  was  impossible  for  me  to  stay 
much  longer  at  Gawston  Flats  in 
my  present  false  position.  If  I 
could  not  gain  a  personal  interview 
I  determined  to  write  to  her;  and 
that  night  I  wrote  a  candid  letter, 
which  I  purposed  sending  her  if  no 
opportunity  tor  private  conversation 
presented  itself.  But  fate  was  kind, 
and  the  next  morning  I  met  Miss 
Gawston  accidentally  in  the  garden 
about  an  hour  before  break fest-time. 
The  result  was  that  she  did  not  ap- 
pear at  breakfast,  and  that  when  we 
rose  from  that  meal  I  requested  a 
few  minutes'  private  conversation 
with  the  Colonel.  Never  shall  1  for- 
get liis  look  of  indignant  amazement 
when  he  learnt  that  his  son's  tutor 
had  proposed  to  his  daughter,  and 
that  with  success. 

'  Mr.  Luxton,  when  I  engaged 
you,'  he  said,  '  there  was  one  thing 
I  was  assured  of  most  emphatically, 
and  that  was  that  you  were  a  gen- 
tleman. This  is  not  the  conduct  of 
a  gentleman  to  enter  my  liouse,  to 
undermine  the  affections  of  my 
daughter,  to  entrap  her  into  an  en- 
gageinent!  Sir,  you  should  have 
thrown  up  your  situation  here  rather 
than  have  done  this.' 

I  felt  he  had  justice  on  his  side. 
As  far  as  he  knew,  I  was  nothing 
but  a  penniless  suitor  who  had 
abused  his  peculiar  position  by  using 
the  many  opportunities  it  afforded 
him  of  making  love  to  a  young  lady, 
a  reputed  heiress  of  ajD parent ly 
supeiior  social  rank.  I  could  not 
help  being  amused,  nevertheless,  as 
I  reflected  how  ditferent  his  tone 
would  have  been  had  he  known  all. 
Something  prompted  me  not  to  tell 
him  yet,  but  to  go  on  pressing  my 
suit  without  advancing  at  once  the 
real  claims  I  had  to  liack  it.  AVe 
were  still  in  the  midst  of  the  dis- 
cussion, the  matter  was  seemingly 
going  hopelessly  against  me,  when 


390 


4^ 


Uoic  i  8cl  about  i'ayiiig  my  Dihts. 


a  phnrp  knock  at  tlio  door  intcr- 
ruptoil  our  tlobatc.  '  Come  in,'  said 
ttic  Coloiu'l,  impatiently.  A  ^it•rvaIlt 
entered  witli  a  note.  It  was  a  tele- 
pram  callinj^  the  Colonel  at  onco  to 
town  on  imjiortant  business,  mili- 
tary, I  think  be  said. 

'Mr.  Luxton,  1  must  postpone 
thi.s  matter  until  my  return,'  he  said, 
hastily,  lookinj;  at  his  watcli.  '  I 
have  not  more  than  ten  minutes  to 
ppare.  I  appeal  to  your  honour  not 
to  make  any  unluir  use  ot  this  un- 
fortunate interruption.'  He  passed 
out  of  the  room.  A  new  idea  struck 
mo,  and  I  followed  quickly. 

'  I  had  thought  of  going  to  town 
this  afternoon  for  the  night,  and 
liupcrt  expressed  a  wish  to  accom- 
pany me,'  1  said ;  '  will  you  allow 
hiui  to  dc  soV 

'Certainly,'  said  the  Colonel,  look- 
ing relieved.  '  It  you  wish  it,  you 
might  remain  away  longer,  not  ne- 
cessarily m  town  ot  cour.^^e,  merely 
letting  Mrs.  Gawston  know  whtro 
Rupert  is.' 

'  Jtnpert,  do  you  mind  just  coming 
witli  me  to  Belgravc  Square  lirst/  I 
said  to  my  pupil  as  we  alighted  from 
tlie  train. 

'  Oh,  no,'  was  the  reply,  and  so  wo 
were  soon  rattling  away  in  a  Han- 
som to  my  father's  town  liouse. 

'  Surely  that's  you,'  f-aid  Rupert, 
looking  at  a  photograph  lying  on 
the  tahle  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
we  were  waiting  for  my  father  to 
appear. 

'  Yes,  I  am  friendly  here,'  I  re- 
plied, getting  red.  '  If  you  will  take 
a  book  for  five  minutes  I  shall  have 
transacted  my  business  with  Sir 
Graliamo.'  1  moved  towards  the 
door  just  a.s  it  opened,  and  the  master 
of  the  house  walked  in. 

'  My  dear  Franlc,  I  hardly  expected 
to  see  you,'  ho  said,  as  he  entered. 
'  You  are  looking  very  well  indeed, 
in  Pjiitc  of  your  teaching  labours. 
I  liopo  you  have  thrown  that  foolish 
engaj^ement  up.'  Ilo  stopped  as  ho 
caught  sight  of  Rujjert. 

'  Let  mo  introduce  my  pupil  to 
yon,'  I  said. 

'  You  will  l)othdino  hero  to-night, 
ot  course,  and  sleo)),'  said  my  lather, 
shaking  hands  with  Rupert.    '  I  am 


going  to  Luxton  to-morrow  by  the 
1 1.45  train  ;  couldn't  you  come  too? 
A  qliange  will  do  you  good,  and 
your  hisfers  will  l>e  delighted  to  see 
you.  They  aie  under  the  impre.'^sion 
that  you  are  abroad,  and  I  have  not 
undeceived  them.  You  will  join  us 
too,  I  hope,  Mr.  Gawsbm.' 

It  was  so  arranged,  and  the  next 
day  we  s(arte<l  for  Luxton.  In  the 
meanwhile  Jvupert  had,  with  some 
wonder  (but  he  was  too  well-bred  a 
boy  to  make  many  remarks),  asked 
mo  if  Sir  Graiiaine  IVnreston  was 
my  father,  and  1  saw  him  writing  a 
letter  that  evening,  probably  to  his 
mother  or  sister.  I  felt  very  much 
disposed  to  write  to  the  latter,  but  I 
determined  to  wait  until  wo  reached 
Luxton.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
say  that,  witiiout  abusing  the  Co- 
lonels appeal  to  my  honour.  I  had 
managed  to  let  Florence  know  before 
i  left  that  the  obstacles  in  our  way 
were  not  as  insuperable  as  they  ap- 
peared. 

Arrived  at  Luxton  Court,  I  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Gawston,  having  previously 
enlightened  my  father  as  to  the  true 
state  of  atlairs.  The  Gawstons,  it 
not  as  ancient  a  family  as  ours,  wore 
eminently  respectable,  and  my  father, 
who  could  make  no  objections,  was 
pleased  to  l>e  unmerciful  in  ihe  way 
of  banter.  'A  fine  way  to  pay  your 
debts  indeed!'  he  concluded  by  say- 
ing. '  I  called  on  my  lather  in 
town,  1  wrote  in  my  letter  to  Mrs. 
Gawston,  'and  he  gave  us  an  invita- 
tion down  here,  whicli  I  took  the 
liberty  to  accept.  Rupert  and  I 
propose  staying  here  two  nights  be- 
fore returning  again  to  the  Flats. 
Enclosed  is  a  letter  to  Mi.ss  Gawston, 
which  1  hope  you  will  not  ol)ject 
to  hand  over  to  her,  and  I  tru.st 
that  you  will  all  pardon  the  slight 
deception  1  have  practi.-ed  on  you,' 
&c.  The  letter  wa.s  given  to  Mi.ss 
Gawston,  and,  as  the  reader  may 
conclude,  no  further  objections  were 
made  to  our  engagement.  Before 
three  months  were  over  we  were 
married. 

'  And  how  about  the  debts?'  does 
any  one  ask. 

Well,  my  father  paid  them. 

D.N. 


lli't!  li.JJJin'Jli.llUil«i|'llll '  rum  IIIIU'ii.  ..lj<nvu.(l 


1 

■■fi 


infB'"'STSf^^ 


#■ 


~-\ 


^ 


391 


GOLDSMITH  AT  THE  TEMPLE  GATE. 

GOLDSMITH,  returned  to  Temple  Gate, 
Waits  till  the  drowsy  porter  opens. 
The  night  is  cold,  the  hour  is  late — 

Ilis  wealth  no  pounds,  no  shillings,  no  pence! 
Weary,  he  seeks  his  lone  abode — 

But  now  the  butt  of  wits  at  dinner — 
And  his  last  guinea  has  bestowed 
Upon  some  straying,  starving  sinner ! 

What  does  he  ponder,  standing  there 

At  midnight  dark,  and  cold,  and  stilly  ? — 
That  life  is  but  a  highway  bare — 

Bleak,  bitter,  desolate,  and  chilly ; 
That  while  the  busy,  thoughtless  rout 

Eush  this  way — that  way— twenty  more  ways, 
Poor  feeble  wretches,  falling  out. 

Die  all  unheeded  in  the  doorways. 

That  Genius  oft  must  'pad  the  hoof,' 

While  Dulness  soars  on  banknote  pinions 
(That — scarce  affords  to  hire  a  roof. 

This — is  the  heir  of  vast  dominions) ; 
That,  when  a  quarrel  is  begun. 

It  is  not  always  Wrong  begins  it ; 
That,  when  the  tight  is  fought  and  won, 

It  is  not  always  Eight  that  wins  it ; 

That  Virtue  oft  is  punished  sore, 

And  Vice  struts  off  with  stars  and  garters ; 
That  man  by  Truth  sets  little  store. 

And  Sham  can  boast  a  crowd  of  martyrs; 
Yet  that — howe'er  our  hfe  is  cast — 

One  solacing,  unfailing  trust  is 
That  restitution  comes  at  last — 

The  end  is  God's  eternal  justice ! 

And  therefore  that  our  steps  are  led 

When  most  it  seems  they're  straying  blindly!— 
Such  thoughts  perchance  are  in  his  head. 

Sprung  of  a  gentle  heart,  and  kindly. 
That  head  will  thi'ob— that  heart  will  ache 

Its  last  ere  long;  and  Goldsmith's  mourners 
Their  tearful  way  shall  hither  make 

From  twenty  different  nooks  and  corners. 

For  when  at  length  life's  tether  broke — 

(How  many  men  might  wish  it  theu'  case !)— • 

A  crowd  of  simple,  loving  folk 
Sat  sobbing  on  the  gusty  staircase ; 


392  Golihmilh  at  the  Temple  Gate. 

And  Reynolds,  Jolinson,  Burke — the  men 
From  wliom  th(5  times  their  glory  borrow— 

Laid  by  the  brush — flung  down  the  pen. 
And  wept  him  with  a  genuine  sorrow. 

That  was  an  ago  of  giant  wits. 

Who  as  a  child  were  wont  to  hold  him : 
But  now, '  poor  Goldy,'  where  he  sits 

JIust  smile  to  see  how  we've  enrolled  him. 
Wo  crown  the  heroes  of  his  days. 

But  in  the  midst  of  them  we  place  him. 
And  while  to  them  our  hats  wo  raise, 

Tor  him ! — our  open  ai'ms  embrace  him ! 

So  Goldsmith  died  :— and  with  him  died 

The  pensions  of  some  score  retainers. 
For  whom  he  oft  himself  denied — 

Poor  ragged,  wretched  Drury  LancrsI 
He  died  in  debt!     But  left  mankind 

The  heirs  to  an  abundant  treasure. 
The  writings  of  a  master  mind, 

A  gcDius  gifted  past  all  measiTre ! 

They  say  he  owed  two  thousand,  quite! 

Yet  who  about  the  sum  would  bicker  ? 
More  than  a  living  was  his  right. 

Who  gave  us  the  immortal  Yicar ! 
How  can  we  count  a  price  that  pays 

For  the  enchantment  that  bewitched  us? 
How  can  we  worthily  appraise 

The  lavish  fancy  that  enriched  us  ? 

The  sighs  and  laughter,  tears  and  smiles, 

The  which  his  cunning  way  to  win  is — 
His  pontic  jests,  his  pleasant  wiles, 

All  going  for  two  thousand  guineas! 
What  churl  would  for  their  songs  begrudge 

Fruit  to  the  blackbirds  and  the  thrushes? 
Goldsmith  a  debtor!     Nay — adjudge 

How  much  we  owe  to  him— with  blushes ! 


Peace  to  your  ashes, '  little  Xoll,' 

You  '  like  an  angel '  talk,  not  write,  now.* 
Great  men  of  letters  to  extol — 

Not  satirise  you— all  unite  now. 
Tour  pen  lia.s  won  a  deathless  name— 

Your  life  a  tender  recollection. 
Let  others  envy  you  the  fame,  * 

I'd  only  ask  for  the  affection  1 

T.  n. 

'  Who  wrote  l)kc  an  angel  aud  talked  like  poor  Poll.' — Garrich's  L'jjitaph. 


393 


VISITS  IN  COUNTRY  HOUSES. 


No.  III. 


AFTER    having    mutually    fol- 
lowed their  own  devices,  Mrs. 

D and  her  son  Arthur  agreed 

to  meet  at  Hornby  Castle,  where 
the  Duke  of  Broadlands  entertained 
a  large  party,  to  celebrate  the 
coming  of  ago  of  his  eldest  son, 
Lord  Proud  acre. 

Hornby  Castle  well  represented 
the  family  to  whom  it  had  belonged 
for  so  many  years.  It  was  a  stately, 
turreted  castle,  which  had  been 
built  about  a  century  ago,  on  the 
site  of  an  old  house  which,  for  many 
generations,  had  satisfied  the  more 
mode-rate  requirements  of  those  who 
were  then  lords  of  the  manor  of 
Hornby ;  for  '  Hornby  Manor '  had 
not  then  developed  into  '  Hornby 
Castle.'  It  was  left  to  after  gene- 
rations to  form  alliances,  and  accu- 
mulate "wealth  and  land,  which 
placed  the  Duke  of  Broadlands  on 
a  level  with  the  most  noble  and 
wealthy.  By  a  mairiage  with  the 
greatest  heiress  of  her  day,  and  the 
sole  representative  of  an  ancient 
house,  whose  alliance  had  been 
universally  courted  for  many  pre- 
ceding generations,  they  took  the 
name  of '  Goldust ;'  and  after  adding 
field  to  field,  and  enlarging  their 
borders,  they  pulled  down  the  old 
house,  which  had  sheltered  them 
and  theirs  with  its  ancient  resiDec- 
tab^lity  for  so  long  a  time,  and 
whose  walls  had  resounded  with 
the  merry  voices  of  all  the  children 
who  had  grown  up  under  its  roof, 
and  built  a  gorgeous  castle,  which, 
as  we  have  already  said,  well  repre- 
sented the  estate  of  its  noble  occu- 
piers. It  was  a  handsome  building, 
if  turrets  and  towers,  and  a  buge 
mass  of  masonry,  covering  a  con- 
siderable area,  constitute  beauty  of 
any  kind.  All  who  appreciate  what 
is  genuine,  and  hate  pretension, 
turned  away  from  it,  if  not  with 
disgust,  at  all  events  with  dissatis- 
faction at  there  being  so  little  to 
interest  tliem.  It  was  impossible 
to  help  being  attracted  by  its  im- 
mensity. It  overawed  the  beholder 
as  it  stretched  itself  out  along  the 


valley,  occupying,  with  its  stables  and 
outbuildings,  which  were  all  built 
in  the  same  ma-.sivc  and  imposing 
style,  with  its  gardens,  and  lawns, 
and  pleasure-grounds,  a  vast  extent 
of  land,  infinitely  greater  than  any 
one  would  sui^pose  from  merely 
looking  down  npon  it  from  the 
heights  above.  Nature  had  proved 
herself  a  kind  friend  to  Hornby 
Castle,  for  nothing  could  surpass 
the  beauty  of  the  park  and  its  sur- 
rounding scenery.  Wood  and  water, 
fern,  heather,  and  gorse,  undulating 
groiind,  well-wooded  hills  protecting 
it  from  the  cruel  north  winds ;  and 
on  the  southern  side  an  extensive 
view  over  a  rich  and  beautifully- 
wooded  country,  which  melted  away 
into  the  blue  distance  of  the  far 
horizon.  Such  a  prospect  could 
rarely  be  seen,  and  many  an  eye 
rested  on  it  in  silent  pleasure,  glad 
to  turn  away  from  the  castle  itself, 
which  afforded  so  little  interest.  All 
that  wealth  could  accomplish  had 
been  done  to  adorn  the  castle.  In- 
side and  out  it  told  of  money,  but, 
great  and  imposing  as  it  was,  it 
sunk  into  less  than  insignificance  in 
the  presence  of  Nature. 

Hornby  Castle  now  appeared  in 
its  most  attractive  form;  for  so 
large  a  house,  filled  as  it  was 
throughout,  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  in  every  nook,  with  a  goodly 
assemblage  of  persons  of  all  ages, 
bent  upon  enjoying  themselves,  and 
doing  all  possible  honour  to  the 
occasion  which  called  them  together, 
could  not  fail  in  affording  amuse- 
ment and  pleasure  to  its  guests.  It 
was  so  large  that,  when  fully  in- 
habited, it  seemed  almost  to  contain 
the  population  of  a  small  town ;  and 
this  circumstance  in  itself  was  a 
security  for  success,  because  every 
one  was  sure  to  find  some  congenial 
society.  The  young  are  easily 
pleased,  and  ready  to  find  some 
good  in  everything.  To  them  every 
cloud  has  a  silver  lining;  and  no- 
thing is  wholly  evil  in  their  eyes. 
But  their  elders  are  neither  so 
easily  satisfied  nor  so  well  disposed. 


394 


Visits  in  Country  Ilouses. 


They  arc  moro  critical ,  and  mnro 
f\riij('\ii,t  —  iiKiic  Bouicthiiip;  ^vhiL■h 
intcrforcs  with  tluir  riijnyiiient  of 
life.  But  ftt  Horiihy  Castlo  Itc  iimst 
have  been  very  cialiliod  ami  lianl  to 
lileasowho  could  not  tind  Foniothinp; 
pleasant  and  congenial  in  the  varied 
society  which  was  now  collected  in 
honour  of  Lord  Proutlacre's  liavinp; 
attained  his  majority.  Mothers  witii 
lovely  danghti  r.s— and  of  course  all 
mothers  think  tin  ir  daughters  lovely 
— were  in  a  fluttir  of  delight,  for 
who  could  tell  that  the  young  mil- 
lionaire might  not  ho  r/'//s  with  one 
of  them?  At  all  events,  it  was  not 
impo.ssible,  ami,  to  many  minds, 
what  is  not  absolutely  impossible 
soon  becomes  hopeful.  It  had  been 
a  profitable  time  lor  the  milliners, 
for  no  expense  was  spared  by  the 
'chaperons'  to  embellish  the  ap- 
pearance of  tlieir  lovely  charges. 
Everything  that  could  set  oft"  tlieir 
wares  to  the  best  advantage  on 
so  im]iortant  an  occasian  was 
universidly  voted  to  bo  money 
well  spent,  which  might,  possibly, 
return  a  high  interest.  There  was 
that  vulgar  I.ady  Chesterford  with 
her  daughter,  no  longer  young,  but 
who  imagined  she  pos.'^essod  the  gift 
of  eternal  ionth,  and  who  always 
selected  the  last  and  most  jjopular 
debutante  as  her  '  dear  friend,'  as  if 
all  the  rest  were  too  old  to  be  her 
companions.  She  was  always,  like 
her  mother,  dressed  in  the  most 
outre  fa.shion  ;  and  it  was  said,  and 
generally  believed,  that  poor  Lord 
Chesterford,  who  had  notlung  but 
his  pension  as  a  retired  and  now 
superannuated  chancellor,  found 
himself  nearly  swamped  by  the  cost- 
liness and  variety  of  the  toi/rtt's  of 
his  wife  and  daughtei'.  He  was  a 
somewhat  prosy  man,  but  could  tell 
a  Btf)ry  well ;  and  his  cverhtsting 
reminiscences  obtained  for  him  a 
certain  amount  of  success.  lie  was 
one  of  the  Duke  of  Broadlands' 
oldest  political  friends,  and  they 
used  to  retire  into  n  moto  corners 
to  fettle  the  afliiirs  of  the  state, 
which,  if  the  expre-sion  of  their 
faces,  and  tho  solemnity  of  their 
manner  might  iio  taken  as  any  indi- 
cation of  its  condition,  it  might  l>e 
inferred  that  tho  country  was  on 
tho  very  verge  of  ruin.    Then  there 


was  Lady  Caroline  ITanly  and  her 
daughter,  who  is  one  ot  the  beauties 
of  tho  day,  but  who,  for  some  inex- 
plical)lo  reason,  is  not  i)opidar. 
Whether  she  is  dull  or  ill-temjicrei 
it  is  impossililo  to  say,  because 
opinion  is  divided,  but  she  has  not 
tho  success  to  which  her  beauty 
entitles  her.  Her  mother  was  a 
celebrated  beauty,  but  not  over- 
wise;  and  it  was  always  said  that 
her  husband  was  not  sorry  to  die, 
and  used  to  say,  with  a  dunble 
e)iti)idrr  in  his  words,  that  ho  had 
prayed  for  many  years  for  his  re- 
lease. i\Ir.  and  Lady  Barbara  Bucket 
and  their  son  and  daughter  con- 
tributed their  share  to  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  company  at  Hornby 
Castle.  She  was  an  aml)itiou8 
woman,  who  was  always  aiming  at 
benig  tho  gmnilr  dtnnc  of  the  county 
in  which  sho  livtd.  She  was  a 
discreet  woman,  for  she  never  lot 
any  one  know  tho  inside  of  her 
mind.  It  was  possible  it  had  no 
inside  ;  but  if  it  had  she  guarded  it 
well,  so  that  no  one  should  look 
into  it.  She  had  an  eternal  smile, 
of  a  peculiar  kind,  in  which  tho 
thin  upj)er  lip  seemed  lost  in  teeth  ; 
and  say  what  you  would,  of  sorrow 
or  joy,  you  were  sure  to  bo  greeted 
by  the  same  inexpressive  smile. 
Her  sole  object  in  life  was  to  become 
the  reigning  queen  of  Swainpshire. 
Her  hu>band  was  a  man  who 
lived  upon  tho  news  lio  gleaned 
from  other  men,  and  ho  had  a 
peculiar  way  of  creeping  up  to 
people  who  were  engaged  in  con- 
versation, that  he  miglit  learn  the 
subject  of  it.  His  thirst  for  inform- 
ation was  unbounded,  ami  ho  was 
generally  known  as  '  tho  Swamp- 
shire  Investigator.'  lie  would  havo 
made  an  admirable  reporter  had 
his  lot  in  life  been  cast  (hiTerently. 
As  it  was,  he  was  always  welcomed 
by  those  who  live  upon  other  people's 
affairs,  and  room  was  always  made 
for  him  in  certain  coteries  of  tea- 
drinking  elderly  women,  who  in- 
variably greeted  him  by  saying, 
'Ah,  here'K  Mr.  Bucket;  ho  is  sure 
to  know  all  about  it.  He  will  tell 
IIS.  Oh,  Mr.  Bucket,  we  are  so  glad 
to  see  you.  Have  \n\\  heard  whether 
it  is  true  that  Lady  Jones  called 
her  husband  Sir  Henry  an  old  fool, 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


395 


because  he  lost  thirty  shillings  at 
whist  to  Sir  lialph  (Jambler?  And 
do  you  know  whether  it  is  true  that 
Lord  and  Lady  Goosey  are  going  to 
be  separated  because  they  are  al- 
ready tired  of  each  other  ?  You  are 
sure  to  know,  because  you  know 
everytliing.'  Then  Mr.  Bucket 
would  twiddle  his  watch-key,  and 
would  say  that  he  'did  not  know, 
but  had  heard,'  &c.  All  these 
peoi^le  furnished  a  fund  of  amuse- 
ment to  those  who  appreciated  their 
propensities,  or  liked  to  play  them 
off  for  the  entertainment  of  others. 

Mrs.  D- and  her  son  were  such 

pleasant,  cheery,  and  unpretentious 
people  that  tliey  were  always  well 
received ;  besides  which  they  were 
so  pleasant  to  themselves  and  one 
another,  that  they  were,  without  any 
effort  on  their  part,  agreeable  com- 
pany generally.     Mrs.  D ,  who 

had  a  natural  gift  for  private 
theatricals,  was  in  great  request; 
and  as  she  loved  burnt  cork,  foot- 
lights, and  everything  connected 
with  the  stage,  she  was  in  her 
element  at  once,  ready  to  give  a  help- 
ing hand  wherever  it  was  wanted. 
She  could  improvise  a  dress  out  of 
very  scanty  materials,  and  could 
compose  the  most  successful  pro- 
logue on  the  shortest  notice.  She 
could  arrange  a  tableau  with  true 
artistic  skill;  and  as  tableaux  and 
private  theatricals  were  a  part  of 
the  programme  of  the  festivities, 
she  was  in  hourly  requisition — the 
referee  on  all  disputed  points,  who 
could,  with  her  consummate  tact, 
make  people  do  exactly  what  they 
were  required  to  do.  She  and  her 
son  Arthur,  in  the  meanwhile,  enter- 
tained themselves  each  day  by 
comparing  notes,  and  commenting 
on  the  events  as  they  occurred ; 
and  the  daily  reunions  between 
mother  and  son  were  the  best  com- 
mentary of  the  proceedings  which 
took  place  on  the  momentous  occa- 
sion of  Iiord  Proudacre's  attaining 
his  majority. 

Not  only  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  Hornby  Castle,  but 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  county  of  Tuftunshire  the 
Duke  of  Broad  lands  was  held  in 
great  awe  and  respect.  His  word 
was  Jaw;   his  disapproval  a  grave 


calamity.  Surrounded  by  small 
squires  and  sel['-iai])()rtant  clergy, 
he  reigned  like  a  king  over  the 
whole  county  ;  and  they  who  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  be  admitted 
within  the  gracious  precincts  ot 
Hornby  Castle,  and  into  tlic  Duke's 
confidence,  were  the  envy  of  all 
their  neighbours,  and  themselves 
elated  at  the  notice  that  was  taken 
of  them.  It  was  quite  a  tradition 
in  the  county  that  the  mind  of  his 
Grace,  on  all  local  politics,  should 
be  taken  before  any  one  would 
venture  to  move  in  any  matter; 
and  when,  on  a  certain  memorable 
occasion,  one  of  the  squires  of 
Tuttuntshire  presumed  to  have  an 
opinion  of  his  own,  and  to  endeavour 
to  maintain  it  against  the  Duke 
of  Broadlands,  the  whole  of  that 
deferential  county  was  aghast  at 
his  presumption,  and  was  in  haste 
to  propitiate  tlae  favour  of  the 
Duke,  and  assure  him  that  it  was 
but  an  isolated  instance  of  a  man 
daring  to  think  for  himself.  The 
clergy  and  the  gentry  were,  in  fact, 
more  or  less  dependents  of  the  great 
man.  They  who  were  in  favour 
were  flattered  by  it  to  their  very 
bent,  and  they  who  were  not  lived 
on  hoping,  even  against  hope,  that 
their  turn  might  come  some  day. 
The  submissiveness  and  deference 
of  these  good  people,  their  anxiety 
to  iDropitiate  the  rising  sun,  and  to 
do  all  honour  to  the  Goldust  family, 
was  a  source  of  great  aaiusement 

to  Mrs.   D and  her  son,  who 

commented  on  the  flunkey  ism  of 
these  country  folk  in  no  measured 
terms. 

'  Mother,'  said  Arthur  D one 

day,  as  he  sat  in  Mrs.  D 's  room, 

in  the  interval  before  dressing- time, 
talking  over  the  events  of  the  day, 
and  canvassing  the  various  guests 
who  had  arrived, — 'Mother, did  you 
see  what  a  fix  that  poor  Mr.  Luvtin 
was  in  when  the  "  great  man  "  called 
on  him  to  repeat  what  he  was  saying 
to  that  young  liberal,  Harry  Phree- 
think  V  How  ho  stammered  and 
spluttered;  and  how  sold  he  was 
when  Harry,  enjoying  the  fun,  said 
that  Mr.  Luvtin  was  agreeing  with 
him  in  thinking  that  there  should 
be  an  extension  ot  the  franchise,  but 
that  they  had  only  as  yet  agreed 


896 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


that  a  bill  should  bo  introduced, 
but  had  not  suttlcd  tlio  details.' 

'Oh  !  that  was  it,  then,  that  made 
the  Duko  give  one  of  his  ominous 
"All's!" 

'Yes;  and  did  you  pce  how  it 
shut  up  poor  old  liUvtin  ?  I  pitied 
the  man.  IIo  won't  slcip  a  wink 
while  lie  is  in  tlio  honso,  because  he 
will  foel  he  has  regularly  ])nt  his 
foot  into  it.  How  I  did  enjoy  it, 
though!' 

'  It  was  a  .shame,  though,  my  dear 
Arthur,  of  your  friend  Harry  to 
make,  so  much  mischief.' 

'Mi.>-chief,  mother  !  why,  bless  you, 
it  will  blow  over  in  no  time.' 

'  Never,  Arthur.  The  Duko  never 
allows  the  clergy  to  think  for  them- 
selves. Besides,  if  I  mistake  not, 
Mr.  Luvtin  has  one  of  the  Duke's 
livings.' 

Arthur  gave  no  reply,  save  a  pro- 
longed whi.'-tle. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
mother,  about  that  young  L'affles? 
He'll  never  know  his  part,  and  ho 
is  such  an  awful  stick.  In  that 
love  scene  with  Eva  Kobarts  (by 
Jove,  mother,  what  a  pretty  girl 
she  is!)  he  provokes  mo  out  of  all 
patience.' 

'No  doubt,  my  boy;  I  can  well 
believe  it.  Would  you  like  to  tiikc 
his  place  ?' 

♦Nonsense!  I  don't  mean  that. 
I  am  not  siich  a  fool  as  that.  AVhy, 
the  girl  has  not  a  penny,  mother.' 

'1  admire  your  p]iilt).>(>])hy,  Ar- 
thur ;  and,  after  all,  '  her  fa  to  is  her 
fortune,"  as  the  old  song  ^ays.' 

'  I  want  to  ask  you,  mother,  who 
is  that  Doctor  Muiilar,that  seems  to 
bo  such  an  authority  in  arranging 
Bomc  of  the  tableaux?' 

'I  cannot  tell,  except  that  ho  is  a 
great  friend  of  the  Duchess's — her 
own  ]iet  d(x;tor  that  she  swears  by, 
and  who  peems  to  have  tho  run  of 
the  hou!-e.' 

'  I  hate  the  man  !* 

'So do  I.' 

'  Did  you  see  how  ho  took  hold  of 
Emily  Fitzgibbon's  chin,  and  said, 
"A  little  more  this  way,  if  you 
please  — a  latlc  more  still.  Thank 
you  ;  that  will  do.  Now  the  head 
a  little  thrown  back  ;  thank  you. 
Allow  mo,'"'  and  again  tho  fellow 
took   hold  of  her  chin  to  arrange 


her  poxc  as  ho  liked.  I  had  no 
patience  with  him.' 

'  And  how  did  Emily  Fitzgibbon 
like  it?' 

'Like  it!  She  looked  as  if  she 
could  have  knocked  him  down. 
Did  you  hear  that  after  it  was  over 
she  went  up  to  Lady  Lavinia  (Jol- 
diist,  and  said  she  must  decline 
taking  any  further  part  in  the 
ta'.)leaux?' 

'  No  ;  did  sho  though  !  1  wonder 
whether  that  is  really  true,  because 
Lord  Proudacre  seems  rather  taken 
with  her,  and  I  don't  somehow 
think  sho  would  like  to  alTront 
them.' 

'  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  can  tell  you 
sho  was  awfully  put  out;  and  when 
that  little  doctor  came  forward  after- 
wards, to  as.sure  her  that  it  was  the 
best  tableau  of  the  evening,  she 
scarcely  vouchsafed  him  any  rejily, 
but  gave  him  a  look  expressive  of 
ineffable  contcm])t.  I  think  it  was, 
after  all,  your  fault,  mother.' 

'  Mine!  IIow  could  it  Ix)  mine? 
"What  could  I  have  to  do  with  that 
man  ?' 

'  You  could  have  prevented  his 
interfering.' 

'  Lady  Lavinia  and  her  mother 
assigned  to  us  our  proi)cr  places, 
and,  as  you  know,  I  am  mistress  of 
tho  robes,  and  have  to  arrange  all 
ahimt  the  dresses.  I  am  the  genius 
that  presides  over  calico,  cotton, 
velvet,  and  tho  rouge-pot.  But 
there  goes  tho  dressing-bell,  and  if 
you  don't  hurry  olT  I  sliall  nf)t  be  in 
time  for  dinner,  and  shall  again 
offend  against  the  laws  of  Hornby 
Castle,  of  which  punctuality  is  one.' 

'  I  say,  mother,  what  a  pompous, 
stiff  old  iirig  he  is.' 

'Yes;  but  a  most  kindhearted 
man.  I  have  known  him  do  the 
most  generous  acts,  in  sjiitc  of  his 
charai'ter  for  stint  and  screw.' 

'  Well,  I  must  be  olT,  el.so  I  shall 
offend  his  mightiness.' 

lOvery  day  tiiey  sat  down  fifty  to 
dinner.  There  was  a  niagnilicent 
slate  dining-room,  capable  of  accom- 
modating a  vast  number,  and  even 
this  large  parly  was  not  out  of  pro- 
portion Ut  it.  It  wa.s  built  of  stone, 
with  richly  groined  rot)f,  and  hand- 
some oak  panelling  occupied  one- 
third  of  the  wall."..  A  hugo  fireplace 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


397 


and  richly-carved  stono  chimney- 
piece  filled  np  the  centre  of  the 
room,  reaching  almost  up  to  the 
ceiling  ;  while  a  large  oriel  window 
oppf)site  the  fireplace,  and  another 
of  the  same  character,  only  larger 
fitill,  at  right  angles  to  it,  added  to 
its  appearance.  It  w-aa  one  of  those 
rooms  which  strike  the  beholder 
with  awe.  It  required  numbers  to 
be  able  to  graj^ple  with  its  oppres- 
sive niagniiiccnce,  and  a  smaller 
party  would  have  been  silenced  by 
it.  As  it  was,  the  room  resounded 
with  the  sound  of  merry  voices, 
and  there  was  no  lull  in  the  laughter 
and  merriment  tliat  prevailed.  The 
first  day  the  Duke  of  Broad  lands 
seemed  bewildered  by  the  unwonted 
sounds,  and,  had  he  dared,  would 
have  been  tempted  to  read  the  Eiot 
Act ;  but  his  astonishment  gave 
way  before  the  resolute  determina- 
tion of  every  one  to  enjoy  himself, 
and  he  was  carried  away  by  the 
strong  current,  and  found  himself 
at  last  taking  part  in  the  surround- 
ing revelry. 

As  the  Duchess  left  the  dining- 
room,  she  went  up  to  the  Duke  and 
begged  him  not  to  remain  there 
long,  as  so  much  had  to  be  done  in 
the  way  of  entertainment  for  the 
large  company  of  neighbours  who 
were  expected  to  arrive  for  the 
tableaux  and  ball  which  was  to 
succeed  them. 

The  tenantry  had  been  already 
regaled  in  the  most  sumptuous 
manner.  The  preceding  day,  which 
was  the  important  one  in  Lord 
Proudacre's  life,  had  been  devoted 
to  feasting  the  tenants  and  the  poor 
on  the  estate.  Each  poor  family 
had  beef  and  bread,  plum-pudding 
and  beer,  and  a  week's  wages ;  and 
every  cottage  bore  ample  testimony 
to  the  unwonted  generosity  and 
liberality  of  the  Duke  of  Broad- 
lands.  The  tenants  had  been  as- 
sembled in  a  large  iron  room  which 
had  been  erected  for  the  occasion, 
and  all  the  company  at  the  Castle 
dmed  with  them,  and  it  was  gene- 
rally voted  to  have  been  great  fun. 
The  Duke  relaxed  somewhat  from 
his  wonted  dignity  of  manner,  and 
actually  condescended  to  some  play- 
ful witticisms  in  his  intercourse 
with  his  tenants.    Lord  Proudacre 


acquitted  himself  more  than  credit- 
ably ;  and  there  were  s^ome  wlio  were 
malicious  enougii  to  say  that  there 
were  indications  of  his  views  be- 
coming more  liberal  than  any  which 
bad  hitherto  prevailed  at  Hornby 
Castle— a  suspicion  wliich  never  ca- 
tered the  Duke's  head,  happily  both 
for  himself  and  Lord  Proudacre  ;  for 
if  such  an  idea  Iia<l  suggested  itself 
to  him  as  a  possibility,  it  must  have 
led  to  distrust  and  estrangement,  as 
the  Duke  looked  upon  pohtical  con- 
sistency as  the  greatest  of  moral 
virtues,  and  would  have  preferred 
any  csdandre  to  the  abandonment 
of  the  family  tradition. 

No  sooner  had  the  gentlemen  left 

the  dining-room,  than  Mrs.  D 

was  hurried  off  to  her  green-room, 
where,  with  rouge-pot,  paint,  and 
powder,  she  was  soon  busily  em- 
ployed in  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  those  who  w^ere  to  figure 
in  the  tableaux.  Dr.  Medlar  was 
busy  on  the  stage,  in  front  of  which 
a  large  gold  frame  was  fastened, 
across  the  inside  of  which  some 
crape  had  been  strained.  But  the 
little  doctor  was  the  presiding 
genius,  giving  offence  to  all  save 
the  Duchess,  who  could  see  no  fault 
in  her  'dear  Doctor  Medlar.'  He 
was  a  little  man,  with  bright  eyes, 
a  hook-nose,  and  brilliant  com- 
plexion; not  unlike  a  Jew,  very 
unlike  a  gentleman,  with  effemi- 
nate, would-be-insinuating  manners. 

Mrs.  D -was   referred  to   very 

often,  because  the  spirit  of  rebellion 
against  the  doctor  was  very  general, 
and  none  of  the  ladies,  young  or 
old,  liked  to  bs  twisted  and  twirled 
about  at  his  pleasure,  as  if  they  were 
nothing  better  than  lay  figures. 

There  was  the  scene  between 
Jeanie  and  Eflfie  Deans  in  prison  ; 
between  Sir  Henry  Lee  and  Alice, 
where  she  kneels  at  his  feet,  while 
he  sat  in  a  wicker  arm-chair,  listen- 
ing to  a  respectable  old  man  whose 
dilapidated  dress  showed  something 
of  the  clerical  habit ;  and  another 
in  which  the  Fair  Maid  of  Perth 
listens,  in  an  attitude  of  devout 
attention,  to  the  instructions  of  a 
Carthusian  monk.  But  one  of  the 
happiest  of  all  was  a  Dutch  picture, 
in  which  a  family  group  was  repre- 
sented, some    engaged  in  needle- 


893 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


work, otlicrs  plajiiig  at  cards,  U'liilo 
Komo  yomij^ir  ones  ))liiyeil  with 
tlieir  tojs  on  tlio  floar,  us  tlioir 
elders  slept  Found ly  in  tlieir  arm- 
chairs, witli  hall-emptied  glasses  by 
their  side.  The  groupiiifr,  the  varied 
dresses,  nil  the  accessories  told  so 
well  that  it  took  every  one  by  sur- 
prise, and  elicited  the  most  eiithu- 
siaslio  applause.  After  these  were 
over,  they  adjnurn(d  to  the  draw- 
ing-rooms, and  tl:en  reassembled 
in  the  saloon,  where  dancing  was 
kept  up  until  a  lute  hour. 

The  next  morning,  Arthur  D 

felt  disinclined  to  join  the  party  in 
the  racket-court,  and,} awning  from 
sheer  fatigue  (for  lie  liad  l)ecn  in 
great  re(]uest  lor  the  tableaux,  and 
was  an  inveterate  dancer),  he  saun- 
tered leisurely  into  bis  mother's 
room,  saymg  — 

•  Well,  mother,  will  you  bet?  Is 
Proudacrc  going  to  marry  Emily 
Fitzgiltbon?' 

'  ]\birry  Emily  Fitzgibbon  !— not 
he.  Why,  no  Goldust  ever  married 
8  "Whjg.    The  Duke  would  dieot  it.' 

'  But,  mother,  IlUows  sometimes 
think  lor  them.selves  on  such  mut- 
ters.' 

'Perhaps  so:  but  that  will  never 
be.  I  .should  pity  her  it  that  were 
to  take  ])lacc,  for  she  would  not 
have  a  comfortable  berth  of  it.' 

•Why  so?' 

'BcciiUFc  the  Duko  takes  upon 
himself  the  responsibility  of  think- 
ing f(jr  all  his  family,  and  he  would 
never  forgive  the  intrusion  oi  such 
thorough  Whig  blood  into  his 
house.' 

'  Is  he  such  a  bigot  in  politics?' 

'  Yes,  indeed  ;  in  politics,  in  reli- 
gion, in  everything.  JJon't  you  sec 
in  what  awe  he  is  held  by  all 
the  county-jieople?— how  they  bow 
and  scraj)e  wlu  n  they  come  within 
a  hundred  yards  ot  him?' 

'  I{y-the-i)y,  did  you  see  what  a 
fright  young  Snobere  was  in,  wlun 
lie  nearly  knocked  his  Grace  over 
as  he  was  waltzing  with  tliat  gay 
Mrs.  Neerdowell?  Jle  stammered 
liis  aj)ologies  as  if  hi.s  last  lioj)o  of 
lieaven  was  on  the  very  verge  of 
being  Tost.  Ho  was  in  such  on 
awful  fright.' 

'  Who  is  it  you  are  speaking  of, 
Arthur?    Ib  it  that  round,  chubby- 


faced  youth  who  asked  you,  when 
you  were  in  the  green-room,  what 
sort  of  tap  they  kept  at  Hornby 
Castle  ?' 

'  Yes,  mother,  the  same.  Ho  was 
the  fellow  you  ])a(l(k(l  so  nicely 
for  the  sleepy  Dutchman  in  the 
"Family  Group." ' 

'1  remember;  and  who  has  lieeii 
making  such  violent  lovo  to  Blanche 
Oxenfunl.' 

'Exactly;  whenever,  at  least, 
Mrs.  Necr.lowell  will  let  him.' 

'  By-theby,  Arthur,  who  is  that 
Mrs.  Neirdowdl?  She  is  very 
]U'etfy;  but  rather  dangerous,  isn't 
she?' 

'  Well,tlure  arc  all  sorts  of  stories 
about  her.  Some  say  she  is  a  widow  ; 
others  tliat  she  is  a  divorcee ' 

'^Vllat?  a  (llvorcee  at  Hornby 
Castle!  Why,  the  very  walls  would 
fall  upon  ns  if  such  a  thing  were 
even  suspected.    But  what  is  she  ?* 

'I  cannot  tell:  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  tind  out.  "  She  came  with 
those  iMe  re  wet  hers  that  the  Duke 
was  ."^o  civil  to.' 

'  And  she  is  determined  to  take 
our  fat  Diit(;Iimau  by  storm  ;  and 
he,  foolish  fellow!  is  flattered  by  it. 
Arthur,  you  men  arc  silly  fellows.' 

'  Because,  dear  mother,  you  wo- 
men are  so  i)!eiisant.    Isn't  that  it?' 

'  I  don't  know  why  it  is ;  only 
that  there  is  no  man  that  a  clever 
woman  cannot  make  a  fool  of.  You 
remember  Samson?' 

Arthur  looked  grave,  and  then 
asked  hisniiiUier  when  she  intended 
to  leave  iloniiiy  Castle. 

'  I  am  rather  tired  of  all  this  row. 
Cannot  we  take  a  small  cottage 
somewhere,  and  rusticate  a  little 
while?  1  don't  care  where  it  is.  Wo 
migiit  get  down  some  books  trora 
Mudie's,and  read  and  lie  rpiiet ;  for 
it  .'•eems  to  nic  that,  wherever  one 
visits  in  the  country,  one  is  sure  to 
find  as  much  row  and  racket  as 
there  is  in  London,  with  fewer  op- 
})ortunities  ot  escaping  from  it  and 
ol  doing  what  one  hkes.' 

'  But,  my  dear  -Arthur,  you  arc 
quite  liliiac.  What  does  it  all  mean  ? 
You  did  not  snp]);)sc  that,  when  we 
came  hero  for  this  special  occasion, 
we  should  find  the  liouso  empty,  or 
do  nothing  but  twiildle  finger  and 
thumb  from  morning  to  night.    1 


Visits  in  Country  Houses. 


899 


was  hero  onco,  some  years  ago,  when 
there  was  scarcely  any  one  here  but 
ourselves,  and  I  never  shall  forget 
the  pompous  solemnity  of  it  all. 
Oh,  no!  take  my  wonl  for  it  that 
Hornby  Castle  is  only  bearable  when 
there  is  what  you  call  a  "  row " 
going  on.' 

'  Ah,  my  dear  mother,  you  are  so 
fond  of  society.' 

'  Fond  of  my  own  kind  ?  Yes, 
and  so  will  you  be  when  you  are  as 
old  as  T  am.  It  is  only  the  young 
who  think  it  a  happiness  to  sit  at 
home  and  live  upon  themselves.' 

'Not  at  all:  I  do  not  wish  for 
that.  But  just  remember  where  we 
have  been.  You  found  row  and 
racket  at  the  Garringtons;  I  found 
the  same  at  Garzington.  And  then 
at  Filey  with  the  Splashfords,  and 
at  Danesford  with  the  Neverests ; 
and  now  here  there  is  not  a  mo- 
ment's quiet.  Morning,  noon,  and 
night  the  top  is  made  to  spin.' 

'  But  you  were  not  any  more  con- 
tented with  your  life  in  the  High- 
lands.' 

'No;  but  that  was  for  a  dif- 
ferent reason:  because  there  was  no 
guiding  hand  to  direct  and  arrange 
what  was  to  be  done.' 

'  My  dear  boy,  you  are,  like  the 
rest  of  your  sex,  never  contented.' 

'Indeed,  no.  I  am  not  discon- 
tented ;  but  I  own  that  I  like  to  sit 
here  with  you,  and ' 

'  Grumble.' 

'No,  mother;  you  are  wrong.' 

'What,  then,  do  you  call  it?  and 
why  should  you  be  so  weary  ?  I  can 
remember  when  you  never  could 
have  enough  of  it ;  when  I  had  to 
run  after  Lady  This,  and  Mrs.  That, 


to  get  invitations  for  you,  and  spent 
a  fortune  in  note-paper  to  get  you 
into  all  the  row  and  racket  you  now 
jjrofess  to  dislike.' 

'Well,  mother,  it  was  so;  and  I 
sui:)pose  that  I  have  had  enough  of 
it.  "  All  work,  and  no  play,  makes 
Jack  a  dull  bey ;"  Imt  I  suspect, 
all  play  would  make  him  very  sick. 
But  tell  me— was  it  like  this  in  your 
day,  when  you  were  quite  young  ?' 

'  I  am  amused  at  the  delicate  way 
in  which  you  say  qiiiie  young,  as  if 
you  wished  to  let  me  down  easy. 
No;  things  were  very  different  in 
my  young  days.  We  used  to  pay 
longer  visits  than  are  now  paid,  and 
visited  at  fewer  houses.  Travelling 
was  a  more  difficult  and  expensive 
affair.  We  had  more  friends  and 
fewer  acquaintances  then.  Now  the 
tables  are  turned,  and  friendships 
are  comparatively  rare.  It  is  all 
owing  to  the  facility  of  travelling, 
which  has  made  us  more  restless, 
and  more  dependent  upon  excite- 
ment.' 

Mrs.  D was  not  far  wrong. 

Steam  has  set  society  in  motion  ;  and 
go  where  we  will,  we  find  everything 
in  a  state  of  progress.  It  is  only 
in  such  places  as  Hornby  Castle, 
weighted  as  it  is  by  the  pompous 
old  Duke  of  Broadlands,  that  things 
seem  to  stand  still ;  and  yet  even 
there,  as  we  have  lately  seen,  cir- 
cumstances have  proved  too  strong 
for  him ;  and  Hornby  Castle  will 

live  in  Arthur  D 's  memory  as  a 

place  in  which  there  was  as  little 
quiet  as  could  be  found  in  other 
places  which  are  avowedly  given  up 
to  pleasure. 


400 


THE  LAST  EUN  WITH  THE  HArvrvIERS. 


IT  was  the  very  day  after  last 
Christmas,  when  all  Enplaud 
had  a  bilious  hoailache,  and  Napo- 
leon, had  he  but  known  the  proper 
time,  mit,'ht  have  come  over,  landed, 
conquered,  and  dictated  a  new  co.'/p 
d'etat  from  NViudsorCiU-tle,  that  Mr. 
Samuel  Felix  found  himself  the  pos- 
sessor of  4000/.  a  year.  I  saw  it  in 
his  face.  Hitherto,  it  must  bo  said, 
Sir.  Felix  had  never  been  an  inte- 
resting person.  lie  had  a  poor  wit. 
lie  h;ul  neither  a  good  wine-cellar 
nor  a  pretty  sister,  and  how  there- 
fore was  he  to  win  tho  respect  of 
his  fellow  men?  But  on  this  morn- 
ing his  dull,  dry  countenance  umler- 
went  a  sort  of  transfiguration.  ^Vhcn 
ho  told  me  of  his  good  fortune  ho 
became  quite  lovely  in  my  eyes:  he 
was  no  more  plain  Mr.  Folix,  of 
Great  Tower  Street,  but  a  noble  and 
handsome  gentleman,  whom  any 
one  might  be  proud  to  know. 

With  aguhhing  generosity  of  con- 
fidence he  ilew  into  a  recital  of  what 
he  was  about  to  do  with  his  newly- 
discovered  treasure,  lie  would  Iniy 
a  house  in  Kent ;  he  would  go  olT  to 
a  wine-mcrcluint's  that  very' day; 
he  would  take  in  'The  Field;'  lie 
would  purchase  a  stud,  but  would 
begin  by  buying  a  first-rate  hunter. 
Now  there  is  nothing  in  which  an 
unwary  man  may  l>e  so  easily  swin- 
dled as  in  buying  a  horse,  and  so, 
out  of  pure  good-nature,  I  sold  him 
one  of  mine. 

Mr.  Felix  assumed  the  ru^r  of  a 
country  gentleman  with  a  charming 
dexterity;  but  pressure  of  legal 
business  and  othei  matters  pre- 
vented his  going  out  with  the 
hoands  so  soon  as  he  would  have 
wished.  Towards  the  end  ot  last 
month,  however,  I  received  intima- 
tion that  1  might  H'lid  down  the 
horse  I  had  sol.l  him,  fur  that 
ho  meant  to  go  out  with  Lord 
Switchcm's  harriers  the  la.'it  day  of 
the  .season  ;  and  could  I  get  myself 
another  mount,  ho  asked,  and  re- 
main over  night  at  the  iJetchcs? 
Now  as  1  liad  invested  the  money 
paid  mo  by  Mr.  Felix  for  my  former 
lior.se  in  tho  purchase  of  anotlier  a 
trifle  better— perhaps  one  might  say 


a  good  deal  better— there  was  no 
difficulty  about  the  mount;  and  so, 
at  an  early  hour  on  that  fresh 
March  morning,  I  rode  pnst  Mr. 
Felix's  lodge  and  up  to  tho  hall- 
door  of  the  Beeches.  My  friend 
showed  me  over  the  house  with  a 
graceful  and  blushing  modesty,  for 
as  yet  he  was  not  quite  accustomed 
to  the  grandeur  of  the  place,  and  at 
ten  o'clock  the  horses  Avcre  ordered 
to  bo  brought  round. 

The  meet  was  at  half-past  ten. 
]\Ir.  Felix,  with  a  bran-new  whip  in 
his  hand,  went  out  to  look  at  the 
hunter,  and  pretended  to  regard 
him  with  a  calmly  critical  air. 

'  Good  long  pattern,'  he  said,  with 
a  judicious  nod  of  approval. 

Bobby  turned  round,  with  that 
big,  black,  full  eye  of  hi.s,  to  look  at 
his  new  ma~ter,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  then  that  my  friend  was  a  little 
nervous.  He  went  forward  and  pat- 
ted the  animal's  neck,  and  called  Inra 
a  poor  old  man  and  a  good  old  man, 
while  the  groom  stood  by,  evidently 
wondering  at  tho  delay.  Mr.  Felix 
looked  all  over  the  lior.se  again  ;  ho 
again  patted  his  horse's  neck  and 
addressed  him  as  'poor  old  Bobby  ;' 
then  he  discovered  something  wrong 
with  ttie  handle  of  his  whip. 

A  thought  struck  me.  Had  Mr. 
Felix  never  ridden  before?  or  was 
I  to  be  the  innocent  cause  of  his 
death?  He  began  to  caress  the 
animal  in  quite  a  hysterical  way, 
with  a  vain  effort  to  conceal  his  agi- 
tation. Perhaps,  too,  I  thought, 
J\Ir.  Felix  had  not  ma<lc  liis  will, 
and  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Felix,  a 
rosy  little  lady,  came  to  the  window 
to  smile  a  farewill  to  her  lord.  A 
/•irwilll  1  turned  away:  I  dared 
not  look  that  simple  creature  in  tho 
tace. 

But  at  length  ho  manngod  to 
struggle  into  the  saddle,  and  away 
we  rode.  Over  tho  hill  and  down 
again,  and  lo!  before  us,  far  over 
tlie  fresh  green  plain,  were  a  number 
of  minute  dark  specks  tint  moved 
hither  and  thither  in  the  yellow 
mi>t  of  sunshine.  As  wo  drew 
nearer  the  mass  of  riders  inrrca-sed; 
we  saw   tho   whip  floiu:ishiug   his 


The  Last  Run  with  the  Harriers. 


401 


white  leather  thong,  and  keeping 
guard  over  that  straying  cluster  of 
sprcckled  dogs  which,  in  despite  of 
him,  would  sniff  about  the  common, 
to  the  amazement  of  certain  long- 
necked  snowy  geese.  The  sight 
inspired  Mr.  Felix.  He  seemed  to 
forget  the  uncomfortable  bobbing 
in  the  saddle  which  he  was  enduring. 
He  became  quite  radiant  and  enthu- 
siastic. 

'  What  a  morning !'  he  cried,  with 
an  incautious  flourish  of  his  whip, 
which  made  Bobby  swerve,  to  my 
friend's  evident  terror.  '  Look  at 
the  light  along  these  hills!  And 
the  hedges,  how  green  they  are! 
By  Jove!  1  believe  I  could  smell 
these  wild  flowers  half  a  mile  off. 
See!  that  is  Lord  Switchem,  he 
with  the  green  coat,  on  the  roan. 
And  there  are  his  two  daughters,  in 
front  of  that  old  squire.  Isn't  the 
youngest  a  siolendid-looking  gell — 
full,  fine-blown,  pink  English  face, 
such  as  you  see  in  magazines,  you 
know ;  and  how  she  sits  her  horse, 
to  be  sure !  And  do  you  think  this 
old  Bobby  11  go  well  ?' 

My  friend's  garruloiis  simplicity 
was  making  him  forgetful.  Bobby 
threw  up  his  head  at  a  bit  of  news- 
paper lying  in  the  road,  and,  but 
for  a  lucky  snatch  at  the  mane,  Mr. 
Felix  would  have  been  in  the  road 
also.  As  he  shoved  himself  back  in 
his  saddle,  he  threw  a  hasty  glance 
towards  the  ladies  to  see  if  they  had 
witnessed  the  mishap — the  ridicu- 
lous old  fop  that  he  was. 

Brisk  and  lively  indeed  was  the 
scene  in  front  of  the  inn — gentlemen 
dismounting  from  their  dog-carts; 
two  oi'  three  rather  fresh  horses 
prancing  on  their  hind  legs  and 
spattering  about  the  turf  of  the 
common ;  the  master  saluting  his 
friends  as  they  arrived;  the  ladies 
walking  their  horses  up  and  down 
to  show  the  full  sweep  of  their  gored 
skirts ;  one  or  two  thirsty  or  timo- 
rous riders  passing  into  the  inn  for 
a  thimbleful  of  'jumping-powder ;' 
the  whip  flicking  at  this  or  that 
stray  hound  which  had  so  little 
self-respect  as  to  claim  acquaintance 
with  a  ragged  and  forlorn-looking 
cur  that  had  come  out  to  see  the 
show.  Mr.  Felix  rode  up  to  shake 
hands  with  Lord  Switchem,  the  tall, 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  LXV. 


thin,  spare  man  with  the  keen  grey 
eye  and  eagle  beak.  His  lordship 
made  a  little  joke,  and  Mr.  Felix  in 
vain  attempted  to  smile,  his  face 
being  filled  with  alarm  at  a  certain 
friskiness  which  Bobby  was  begin- 
ning to  exhibit.  My  friend  then 
lilted  his  hat  in  a  graceful  manner 
to  the  two  ladies,  and  came  back 
in  happy  unconsciousness  of  the 
singular  appearance  of  his  elbows 
and  legs. 

Then  away  we  went  up  the  nearest 
lane,  the  whip  still  keeping  in  sore 
restraint  these  dappled  htads  and 
flickering  sterns,  until  the  master 
abruptly  rode  his  horse  up  a  bank 
on  the  left,  the  dogs  following  him 
into  a  long  undulating  turnip-field. 
When  we  were  all  in  the  field  I  no- 
ticed that  on  Mr.  Felix's  face  there 
dwelt  a  singular  solemnity.  Pre- 
sently he  rode  over  to  me  and  said — 

'If  I  see  a  hare  what  must  I  do?' 

'  Keep  with  the  hounds,  and  they'll 
see  her  as  soon  as  you  will.  And 
mind,  if  you  ride  down  any  of  the 
dogs.  Lord  Switchem  may  perhaps 
use  discourteous  language.' 

I  lost  sight  of  Mr.  Felix  then; 
but  in  a  lew  moments  I  had  my 
attention  recalled  to  him  by  hearing 
an  unearthly  halloo. 

'There  she  goes!'  he  shrieked, 
pointing  to  a  rabbit  which  one  of 
the  dogs,  having  unearthed,  seemed 
inclined  to  follow. 

The  pack  wheeled  roimd  in  obe- 
dience to  the  cry,  and  doubtless  he 
thought  he  had  done  something 
fine,  when  a  frightful  torrent  of 
execration  was  heard,  and  Lord 
Switchem,  in  a  furious  passion,  rode 
by.  The  whip,  too,  quite  as  in- 
censed, but  only  grumbling  the 
oaths  his  master  uttered,  rode  at 
the  hound  which  had  led  astray  the 
others,  and,  coming  down  with  the 
full  force  of  his  arm,  curled  the 
lithe  leather  thong  round  her  body. 
Then  there  was  a  yell. 

'  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?'  cried 
Felix,  shocked  at  such  cruelty. 

*  Didn't  you  see  it  was  a  rabbit  ? 
and  you  set  the  whole  pack  astray,' 
said  another  rider,  in  accents  of  bit- 
ter scorn,  the  whip  being  too  angry, 
or  too  prudent,  to  reply. 

'  It  was  the  dog's  fault,  not  mine,' 
grumbled  Felix  to  me;  but  there 

2    D 


102 


21ic  Last  liun  icilh  the  Ilaniers. 


wiu?  a  proat  Mnsh  of  shirae  on  his 
face,  nml  he  willingly  fell  totlicrear. 

The  tlops.  liaviiif^  bein  recalled  to 
their  duty,  K-paii  to  scour  tiio  field 
onco  more,  and  in  a  very  feiv  mo- 
ments they  simultaneously  lifted  up 
their  voice  and  sent  forth  tlio  joyful 
cry.  Moved  by  a  suddtJn  instinct, 
tho  hounds  clo.-e  1  into  a  dense  com- 
pact body,  and  darted  off  with  that 
sharp,  plaintive  howl.  Ikre  and 
there  a  horse,  grown  instantaneou>ly 
mad  with  the  pip'nc:  of  tho  phrill 
music,  cairied  his  rider  headlong 
ilown  tho  slope  at  a  jiace  which  was 
certainly  uneomfortablo  over  the 
superterranean  turnips;  while  tho 
hare,  running  almost  in  a  straight 
lino,  cross»'(l  tho  road  at  the  foot  of 
tho  incline  and  went  straight  up  the 
opposite  iiill.  Hero  I  lost  sight  of 
^ir.  Feli.x.  There  was  a  na.sty  bit 
of  hedge  at  tho  foot  of  tho  turnip- 
field,  which  the  two  ladies  took 
lieautifully ;  but  I  know  that  Mr. 
Felix,  if  he  had  the  least  regard  for 
his  wife,  and  if  Bobby  would  allow 
liitn,  would  find  some  other  method 
of  ej.'rf  ss. 

And  how  well  tho  dogs  ran !  You 
could  have  covered  them  with  ab]  m- 
ket,  as  tho  sporting  correspondents 
say.  Bii  1 1  ho  hare,  havi  ng  I  >een  headed , 
doul)led  round  tho  bill  and  made  for 
tho  road  again,  not  a  few  laggard 
riders  profiting  by  her  resolution. 
Now  where  wius  Mr.  YcUx  ?  Neither 
lie  nor  I>obby  was  within  sight,  and 
surely  there  had  l)een  nothing  to 
prevent  his  at  least  gaining  iijion 
tlio  dogs  on  their  return.  On 
reaching  the  road  the  pack  suddenly 
found  tlurnsclvcs  at  fault;  tho  hare 
having  taken  a  sliarp  turn  to  the 
right,  they  had  overrun  the  scent, 
but  iinniediately  spreading  them- 
selves out,  they  worked  aUjut  both 
Jiedgcs,  their  no.sea  to  the  ground 
acid  their  white  sterns  wagging  in 
and  out  tho  thick  briars,  while  the 
whip  kept  keen  watch  for  tho  first 
recovery  of  the  trail.  And,  as  it 
hapjK-ned,  a  certain  r.ei-.sy  again 
pfave  tongue,  receiving  tho  warm 
commendation  of  her  master  as  i-ho 
led  her  companions  ofT  in  pursuit. 

Tho  hare  had  evidditly  made  for 
tho  turnip-field  where  we  had  first 
found  her ;  and  just  as  the  hounds, 
in  full  cry,  were  struggling  up  tho 


bank  and  leaping  the  hedge,  what 
should  jump  clean  into  the  road 
but  IJobby ! 

He  was  riderless.  There  was  a 
little  titter  of  laughter  among  tho 
men,  f(U*  presently  Mr.  Felix  walked 
up  to  the  hedge  and  looked  over. 

'  31ako  him  jump  l>ack,'  said  he, 
piteouily,  seeing  that  the  other 
riders  wire  now  half  way  up  the 
turnip-lield. 

•  Come  along,  and  take  your 
hor.^o.' 

'  I  can"t,'  ho  said,  ap|iarently  al- 
most ready  to  cry  ;  '  I  sliall  losu  the 
place  wjiere  my  whip  diopjX'd;  I 
am  sure  it  was  hero.  And  1  shan't 
try  to  ride  again  over  these  turnips.' 

'  Arc  you  going  home,  then?' 

He  quietly  disa])peared,  leaving 
me  in  charge  of  I5ot>by.  Sudilenly, 
however,  I  heard  a  shout  from  him. 

'Oh!  by  Jove,  here  they  come — 
straight  down  on  me — what  am  I 
to  do?' 

The  C17  of  the  hounds  was  coming 
nearer  and  still  nearer,  until,  a  few 
feet  on  llio  other  side  of  the  hedge, 
there ro>o  the  shrill  squeak!  squeak! 
of  the  liare  being  killed.  I  left 
Bo'iby  to  his  fate,  and  rode  up  the 
bank  and  through  the  nearest  gap. 
H- re  a  prettv  picture  pnsenfed 
itself.  .Mr.  Felix,  half-dead  with 
terror,  and  not  daring  to  move  lest 
tho  maddened  dogs  should  fly  at 
him,  was  standing  and  looking  at 
them  worrying  the  hiire  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  while  Lord  Switchem, 
riding  down  the  hill,  and  followed 
by  the  whole  field,  was  sliouting  to 
him  to  seize  the  killed  hare  from 
the  hounds.  Indeed,  by  the  time  I 
had  rescued  the  bleeding  carca.so 
there  was  little  need  for  tlic  masti  r 
to  cut  it  o))en. 

'Shall  we  send  the  hare  round  to 
your  house,  IMr.  Felix?' said  Lord 
.Switchem,  plea.santly,  while  there 
was  a  great  Inirst,  of  laughter  from 
tho  '  field ;'  and,  indeed,  a  more 
pitiable  objtct  than  my  friend,  stiind- 
inp  there;  among  the  hounds,  it  was 
not  often  their  lot  to  see. 

'  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  what  I 
ought  to  have  done"/'  said  Felix, 
quite  savagely,  as  he  caught  Lobby, 
and  mounted,  '  Vou  dniit  expect 
that  one  learas  to  hunt  hares  in 
Clieapi-ido  ?' 


TJie  Last  Run  with  the  Harriers. 


403 


It  was  useless  to  point  out  the 
fact  tliat  I  liail  never  undertaken  to 
be  his  preceptor  in  these  matters, 
for  now  every  one  was  hastening  to 
overtalvO  tlie  hounds,  which  were 
ah-eady  drawing  a  low  piece  of  mea- 
dow some  five  hundred  yards  off. 
Before  we  could  reach  the  ground 
the  hounds  were  in  cry ;  but  as  the 
hare  went  straight  away  over  several 
tracts  of  meadow  land,  we  were  ere 
long  lip  with  the  crowd.  She  led 
the  dogs  down  to  a  long,  low  clump 
of  alders  lying  beside  a  broad  but 
not  very  deep  stream,  and  here  the 
scent  was  lost.  There  ensued  five 
minutes  of  paiuful  uncertainty. 
Part  of  the  field  kept  hoveriug 
about  the  corner  of  the  meadow, 
the  others  crossed  the  stream  by  a 
ford  and  struggled  through  the 
alders  to  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
cover.  Now,  Lord  Switcliem  Avas  in 
the  former  grouji,  and  we  distinctly 
saw  him  pass,  without  recognition, 
a  tall,  fair-moustachioed  young  gen- 
tleman who  stood  by  a  stile,  a  shot- 
belt  over  his  shoulder,  a  gun  in  his 
hand,  and  a  large  brown  retriever 
at  his  feet.  Not  dreaming  that  we 
were  likely  to  intrude  upon  a  jiri- 
vate  conversation,  Mr.  Felix  and  I 
rode  up  to  reconnoitre  the  ford,  and, 
in  doing  so,  found  that  we  were 
closely  followed  by  Lord  Switchem's 
youngest  daughter,  who,  drawing 
near  to  the  young  gentleman  who 
was  leaning  against  the  stile,  said 
rapidly  to  him — 

*  Und  gehst  du  heute  Abend  fort  ?' 

'Ja  wolil,  Liebschen,'  said  this 
j)erson,  in  an  xinder  tone ;  '  komme 
aber  um  neun  Uhr.' 

'Hier?' 

He  nodded  in  reply,  and  she 
turned  to  look  after  her  sister,  as 
though  she  had  been  diligently  ob- 
serving the  water. 

'  I  say,'  said  Felix, '  what  did  that 
fellow  say  to  her  just  now  ?' 

'He  remarked  that  elderly  gen- 
tlemen had  no  business  to  pry  into 
lovers'  secrets.' 

'  That's  your  fun,'  said  Felix,  with 
a  sneer;  'but  hark!  there  go  the 
dogs  again;  and  see!  they're  making 
across  the  field  yonder.' 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  a 
simultaneous  rush  to  the  ford.  The 
younger  lady,  gracefully  lifting  up 


the  skirt  of  her  habit,  and  not  even 
looking  at  the  young  gentleman, 
urged  her  horse  into  the  stream, 
notwithstanding  that  it  tried  to 
stand  and  paw  the  water  Avith  its 
lore  foot. 

'  Now,  Mr.  Felix,'  said  some  one, 
'  come  along.' 

Eut  a  slight  cry  escaped  the  lips 
of  my  friend,  and,  turning,  I  just 
caught  sight  of  him  slipping  off  the 
saddle,  as  Bobby,  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream,  began  to  rear  up  on 
his  hind  legs.  The  next  moment 
Mr.  Felix  was  in  the  water,  whence 
he  emerged  puffing  and  snorting 
like  a  hippopotamus ;  while  Bobby, 
tempted  by  the  current,  was  rapidly 
making  his  way  down  the  bed  of  the 
river.  With  two  or  three  furious 
plunges  Felix  succeeded  in  over- 
taking him  and  laying  hold  of  the 
bridle. 

'You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,'  he  cried,  in  a  magnificent 
rage,  '  sitting  laughing  there,  when 
it  is  all  owing  to  your  having  sold 
me  a  horse  which  no  one  could  ride. 
Perhaps  you  think  it  fun.  I  don't ; 
and  in  the  City  we  would  call  the 
transaction  by  a  harder  name.' 

'  fliy  dear  sir,'  I  observed,  '  I  did 
not  bargain  to  teach  you  riding,  as 
well  as  give  you  a  horse,  for  sixty 
guineas ;  and  as  you  don't  seem  to 
want  my  looking  after  you,  Pll  bid 
you  good-day.' 

'  Oh !  I  say,'  cried  Mr.  Felix,  in 
despair, '  wait  a  minute  !  Wouldn't 
Ideas  much  tor  you?  You've  no 
more  conscience  than  a  wild  bear ; 
and  it  is  all  owing  to  your  con- 
founded horse.' 

Unfortunately,  when  he  did  ma- 
nage to  lay  hold  of  the  bridle,  there 
was  no  place  on  either  side  of  the 
stream  for  him  to  Jand,  and  he  was 
therefore  under  the  necessity  of 
walking  against  the  current,  Bobby 
very  unwillingly  following.  I  soon 
discovered  that  my  friend's  tone  of 
plaintive  entreaty  was  but  a  guise  ; 
for  so  soon  as  he  was  again  mounted 
lie  began  '  nagging'  as  before. 

'Serves  me  right  for  buying  a 
horse  without  having  tried  him  first. 
I  dare  say  you  fellows  think  it 
rather  fine  to  palm  oif  a  vicious 
horse.  Hem!  I  don't.  Men  of 
principle  don't.     And  now,  you  see, 

2    D  2 


404 


27/e  Las/  Run  icith  the  flarriera. 


tbt\v're  all  away  iK'foro  us:  and  I'vo 
mule  iiivsilf  ridiculous  lx;fore  the 
whole  ticM.' 

'  There  I  quite  agree  with  you.' 

'Do  you?  J)o  you  nuan  to  say 
that  one  man  of  the  lot  couKl  ride 
this  horse  ?' 

'  Why.  a  baby  could  ride  hiiu.' 

'But  I'm  not  a  liahy:  and  now 
I  suppose,  a.s  they're  two  or  three 
miles  away,  we  had  better  go 
home.' 

Mr.  Fel*x  was  interrupted  by  the 
lonp,  yelping  wliino  of  the  dogs, 
which  were  clearly  coming  down 
again  to  the  alders,  and  two  minutes 
thereafter— we  standing  in  i)erfcct 
stillness— the  hare  leaped  from  a 
low  bank  and  took  the  water  gal- 
lantly. Louder  and  louder  grew 
the  cry  of  the  hounds  in  the  resonant 
wood,  nearer  and  nearer  came  the 
sound  of  crackling  branches  and 
trampled  leaves,  and  now  the  hare 
had  just  reached  the  opposite  bank. 

'Oh!  by  Jove,  she'll  escape!' 
shouted  Felix,  as,  oblivious  of  con- 
sequences, ho  spurred  I'.cjbby  for- 
ward ami  made  a  great  cut  at  the 
hare  with  his  long  whij). 

'II.. Id  hard!'  I  yelled  to  him; 
and  the  next  moment  the  dogs  had 
simultaneously  da.shed  into  the 
•water,  spluttered  or  swam  acro.ss, 
and  were  up  the  o]iposite  bank  and 
through  the  dried,  white  rushes. 
The  liare  took  to  the  open,  the 
dogs  some  thirty  yards  behind,  and 
'  Now,'  I  cried  to  Felix, '  there  is  a 
chance  for  you.' 

AVo  were  several  seconds  in  ad- 
vance of  the  others,  who  were  as 
yet  struggling  through  the  swamp 
to  reach  the  ford,  and  Mr.  Felix 
fairly  laughed  out  with  pleasure. 
How  ho  manag(  il  to  stick  on  I  know 
not;  for  iJol.by,  wanning  to  the 
work,  was  determined  tf)  have  a 
run,  whc^ther  with  a  rider  or  with- 
out. 'Hurrah!'  shouted  Felix,  as 
he  gallantly  leaped  a  small  drain 
about  two  feet  wide,  and  again 
urged  on  his  mad  career.  Several 
of  the  others  had  now  overtaken 
him,  however,  and  pretty  much  in 
a  lino  they  were  appmaching  a  ditch 
which  was  broad  enough  and  deep 
enough  to  make  .'^tveral  of  the  older 
liands  Iwjk  out  for  a  safe  place. 
The  younger  of  the  two  ladies  woa 


the  tirst  to  make  the  attempt,  and 
her  horse  refused. 

'Shall  I  give  you  a  lead?'  said 
Felix,  who  was  close  behind  her. 

Was  he  suddenly  grown  insane? 
Had  the  dip  in  the  river,  and  the 
subsequent  reaction,  produced  a 
fever?  Whether  he  shut  his  eyes 
or  not  I  cannot  .^ay;  ])nt  he  rode 
fnll  tilt  at  the  ditch.  Bobby  landed 
with  his  fore-feet  well  planted,  but 
his  hind-feet  slipjuxl  in  the  soft 
mud.  and  my  friend  went  straight 
as  an  arrow  over  his  head,  turned  a 
somersault,  and  found  himself  lying 
in  the  tield  on  his  back.  Felix  got 
up,  looked  about  him  for  a  second 
in  a  bewildered  nmmier,  and  the 
next  .second  was  again  in  the  saddle. 
Had  lie  been  less  dazeil,  he  would 
have  noticed,  on  rising,  that  two  of 
his  fellow-crcaturcs  had  similarly 
come  to  grief,  and  that  a  smaller  boy, 
who  bad  been  liding  a  small  pony, 
was  just  then  creeping  out  of  the 
water  like  a  half-drowned  rat. 

The  houn<ls  having  overrun  the 
scent  near  the  border  of  a  small 
plantati.m  allowed  the  riders  to 
gather  together  again. 

'  I  was  not  the  only  one/  said 
Felix,  coming  ju'oudly  up. 

'How  the  only  one?' 

'There  were  several  tumbled  off, 
and  I  was  the  first  to  get  mounted 
again,'  ho  said,  with  a  tine  enthu- 
siasm mantling  in  his  cheek;  'and, 
I  say,  this  horse  you  sold  mo  goes 
wonderfully.  He's  a  perfect  jewel. 
You  know  I  don't  feel  quite  at  homo 
on  a  horse  while  he's  trotting;  but 
in  full  galloj)  I  sit  as  easily  as  in  an 
arm-chair;  and  you  just  see  when 
wo  get  a  good  run  apain !' 

^Ir.  Felix  was  certainly  in  a  state 
of  considerable  excitement.  It  was 
clear  to  me  that  he  was  quite 
forgetful  of  l^Irs.  Felix — ni/alor  (r- 
iirro'  co7i)i'f/is  iiinmnior — and  deter- 
mined, irrespective  of  results,  to 
signalise  himself  in  the  last  run  of 
the  season.  Not  to  sjtcak  of  Lord 
Switchem — whose  aciiuaintnnce  ho 
had  succeeded  with  considerable 
ditliculty  in  making  -there  were  the 
whole  of  his  neighbours  whom  he 
wished  to  imiucss  with  a  sense  of 
his  equestrian  ]iroliciency ;  ami  it  is 
hanl  to  say  how  much  a  man  will 
risk  in  endeavouring  to  prove  him- 


Tlie  Last  Mun  with  the  Harriers. 


405 


self  a  grand  cavalier.  Mr.  Felix 
kept  flourishinp;  his  hunting-whip ; 
he  patted  Bobby's  neck  and  spoke 
to  him  encouragingly ;  he  began  to 
talk  scientifically  about  tlie  state  of 
the  weather  being  adverse  to  the 
lying  of  the  scent.  One  would  have 
thought  that  Mr.  Felix  had  become 
a 'thistle-whipper'  immediately  on 
leaving  his  cradle. 

The  hounds  at  length  started 
another  hare,  and  were  presently  in 
full  cry  after  her  across  the  mea- 
dows. Mr.  Felix  was  now  deter- 
mined to  show  fight.  His  misfor- 
tune at  the  difch  having  terminated 
without  breakage  of  bone  was  only 
an  additional  incentive,  and  Bobby 
very  soon  replied  to  his  admonitions 
of  whip  and  spur  by  putting  on  full 
steam.  Away  they  went,  over  the 
fine  level  ground,  until  it  seemed  to 
me  that  ]jobby  was  exercising  his 
own  choice  of  speed  and  path  some- 
what markedly.  Away  they  went, 
by  stream,  and  ditch,  and  field,  while 
Mr.  Felix,  ahead  of  all  his  compa- 
nions, was  close  upon  the  hounds. 
It  was  a  beautiful  run.  If  my  friend 
had  purposely  come  out  to  astonish 
his  bucolic  acquaintances  with  the 
spirit  of  a  City  man,  he  could  not 
have  led  off  more  brilliantly,  every- 
thing being  in  his  favour.  At  the 
same  time  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Mr.  Felix,  leaning  back  in  the  saddle, 
seemed  making  futile  but  vigorous 
efforts  to  restrain  his  steed,  though 
the  distance  he  speedily  put  between 
himself  and  me  soon  prevented  the 
possibility  of  my  judging. 

The  dogs  were  now  going  down 
hill,  Mr.  Felix  being  far  ahead  of 
the  rest  of  the  field.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  spreckled  heads  and 
legs  struggling  through  or  jumping 
over  a  low  quickset  hedge,  and  at 
the  same  moment  saw  Bobby  rise 
high  into  the  air.  The  next  mo- 
ment the  whole  disappeared ;  there 


was  a  shrill  shriek  above  the  cry  of 
the  dogs  ;  that  cry  ceased,  and  there 
was  nothing  heard  but  the  clatter- 
ing of  hoof's  on  the  damp  meadow 
land. 

And  what  was  this  next  soimd  ? 
Surely  it  could  not  be  Lord  Switchem 
who  was  using  such  horrible  lan- 
guage, denouncing  Mr.  Felix,  and 
himself,  and  everybody  and  every- 
thing in  terms  which  might  have 
made  a  prizefighter  turn  pale. 

As  I  arrived  at  the  hedge  and 
looked  over,  a  singular  tableaii  was 
spread  out  before  me.  Mr.  Felix 
was  on  foot,  disconsolately  wiping 
the  mud  off  his  new  coat;  Bobby 
was  half  a  mile  off,  at  full  gallop  ; 
Lord  Switchem's  favourite  hound, 
Bessy,  lay  dead  on  the  bank;  and 
his  lordship  was  in  a  passion  which 
made  his  thin,  dry  face  as  hot  as 
fire.  Let  me  draw  a  veil  over  that 
sad  consummation  of  the  day's 
sport :  the  hare  had  been  killed  and 
the  field  were  willing  to  return 
home. 

When  Bobby  had  been  caught 
and  restored  to  his  rider,  Mr.  Felix 
observed  to  me — 

'  I  consider  Lord  Switchem  a  most 
ungentlemanly  man.  I  say  he  is 
no  gentleman.  But  let  him  rave  as 
he  likes;  it  is  the  last  day  of  the 
season,  and  what  should  I  care  ?  I 
will  avoid,  however,  for  the  future, 
one  who  has  as  little  command  over 
his  tongue  as  over  his  temper.' 

When  Mr.  Felix  returned  home 
he  was  quite  triumphant  in  his  tone. 
He  informed  the  rosy  little  lady  that 
they  had  killed  two  hares,  and  that 
he  had  witnessed  the  death  of  both. 
Mrs.  Felix  was  quite  charmed  with 
this  new  proof  of  the  grandeur  and 
power  of  her  husband. 

'  And  that  horse  of  yours,'  said 
Felix,  '  is  quite  a  trump.    And,  I 
say,  which  champagne  do  you  pre- 
fer—Clicqu.ot,  or  Collin,  or  Moet?' 
W.  B. 


^^m#^«- 


406 


PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES. 


CnAPTEli  XIII. 


WEAVING  TUE  srEI.L. 


PASTORAL  pleasures  have  heeu 
sung  in  every  key,  and  when 
circumstances  render  it  dcsirablo 
that  we  should  leave  London,  it  is 
wise  and  well  to  reiueiul>er  that 
'  God  made  the  country,  and  man 
the  town.'  The  greenwood  glado, 
and  the  rippling  river,  the  dark 
purple  moor,  and  the  sky  undeliled 
by  smoke,  the  ])eace,  the  purity,  and 
the  other  privileges  of  the  rural  dis- 
tricts, have  a  good  deal  in  them  for 
•which  wo  ought  to  be  gratel'ul. 
But  there  is  a  reverse  to  the  shield. 
It  may  do  intelligent  human  beings 
good  to  bo  socially  'desolate'  at 
times.  It  does  do  them  good  in- 
deed, for  it  throws  them  back  upon 
themselves,  and  obliges  them  to 
assiduously  cultivate  their  own  best 
for  distraction's  sake,  lint  it  does 
not  improve  them  to  be  '  dumb '  bc- 
cau.-o  ihey  cannot  without  inter- 
mission '  speak  in  the  congregation 
of  fools.' 

llaldon  Hall  stood  well  in  the 
miilst  of  what  was  generally  desig- 
nated a  '  very  good  neiglibomhood.' 
A  fair  numiicr  of  county  families 
had  centuries  ago  been  planted  in 
the  soil  surrounding  the  Jleldon 
acres— had  taken  root  in  the  same, 
and  in  some  instances  liad  flourished 
exceedingly.  Additionally  there 
were  scattered  about  several  more 
or  less  favourabjo  specimens  of 
'  new  men '  who  had  in  some  Avay 
or  other  set  their  mark  ujjon  tho 
times  in  a  remunerative  way.  More- 
over, in  .several  instances  the  cleri- 
cal (illico  was  lilltd  by  scholarly  di- 
vines—men wild  had  an  apt  Greek 
quotation  to  utter  on  every  subject 
that  wa.s  mentioned  before  them, 
hut  who  for  all  that  were  only  one 
shade  less  dull  tiian  devout. 

Notwithstiindiiig  all  the  so  advan- 
tages, it  may  iLs  well  bo  ackiiow- 
Ie<lped  at  once  that  it  was  !i  dnil 
neiglilxjurhood  —  a  neighbijurhooil 
that  was  by  no  means  wax  to  re- 
ceive  new     impressions,     however 


much  it  might  resemble  marble  in 
its  power  of  retaining  tliem.  It  had 
never  cordially  approved  of  Mr. 
Bathurst's  long-contiinied  unbroken 
absence.  It  could  not  cordially  ap- 
l)rove  of  his  presence  now  '  under 
the  circumstances.' 

The  '  circiuustances'  which  were 
a  stumbling-block  in  Mr.  Ikithurst's 
path  to  instantaneous  j)oj)uIarity 
were  Blanche  Lyon  and  Beatrix 
Talbot,  and  his  opendevoticm  to  the 
l):iir— devotion  that  was  shown  so 
gladly,  frankly,  and  imitaitially, 
that  Ijlanche  (juickly  came  to  take 
it  as  much  for  granted  as  she  did 
the  sunshine,  and  Trixy  to  feel 
alternately  gladdened  and  saddened 
by  it  as  she  iuid  never  been  before 
by  anything. 

From  the  hour  of  Edgar  Talbot's 
first  appearance  at  Ilaldon  it  had 
been  apparent  to  some  of  th''m  that 
all  was  not  well  with  him.  Ilecnuld 
not  concentrate  himself  )i])on  the 
present,  casting  all  business  cares 
behind  him,  as  entirely  as  was  to  be 
expected,  considering  he  liad  been 
the  mainspring  of  tho  move  tliey 
had  made  into  the  country.  Tho 
holiday  for  which  he  had  .so  wearily 
sighed  was  evidently  little  more 
than  an  emiity  period  in  which  ho 
had  a  freer  oi)p(irtuin'ty  for  tho  in- 
dulgence of  undisturbed  anxious 
thought  tlian  was  his  jiortiou  to 
have  in  London.  Those  who  tli'iught 
of  him  at  all  in  the  first  days  of  tho 
Arcadian  intoxication  which  mado 
them  find  tho  mere  act  of  living  all- 
sufiicient,  felt  that  'a vague  unrest, 
and  a  nameless  longing  filled  his 
breast.'  But  even  they  did  not  stay 
to  question  the  cause  of  it.  Beatrix 
was  sorry  for  liiin,  but  was  not 
snlficimtly  inlimate  with  her  eldest 
brother  to  \v.U  him  that  she  was  so. 
She  was  sorry  that  he  alone  of  the 
party  should  be  drawn  in  by  some 
stern  secret  necessity  from  the  lawn 
and  tho  river  and  tho  wreathing 
ro.se8  of   June,   to   answer   letters 


Drawn  by  W.  Small.] 


A   PASTORAL   EPISODE. 

[See  "  Playing  <or  Hii;li  Stakes." 


Playing  for  Sigh  StaJces. 


407 


which  had  arrived  during  brcakfiist 
and  spoilt  the  same  for  liim.  '  For  all 
the  good  Talbot  gets  out  of  all  this 
he  might  as  well  be  listening  to 
the  last  quotations  in  the  City/ 
Frank  Bathurst  said  one  morning, 
as,  togetlier  with  Lionel  and  the  two 
girls,  he  sat  on  the  bank  of  the  lake. 
They  had  left  Mr.  Talbot  in  the 
library  writing  quickly  and  ner- 
vously, and  there  had  been  that  in 
his  manner  of  replying  to  their 
solicitations  that  he  would  'come 
out  and  do  nothing  with  them  all 
the  moining,'  which  showed  that 
his  correspondence  was  of  very, 
genuine  interest  and  importance  to 
him.  • 

'  For  my  part,  I  believe  Mr.  Tal- 
bot enjoys  it  quite  as  much  as  we 
do,'  Blanche  Lyon  said,  smiling. 
*  The  sun  and  the  scent  of  the  roses 
both  manage  to  get  in  at  the  win- 
dow, so  he  can  enjoy  them,  and 
malce  money,  and  despise  us  for 
wasting  time  simultaneously.' 

'  And  they  are  three  pure  and  un- 
deniable sources  of  jileasure ;  let 
us  all  count  up  our  joys,  and  see  if 
we  are  in  a  j^osition  to  pity  hini  for 
not  behig  "  one  of  us," '  Frank  Ba- 
thurst replied 

*  There  shall  be  no  reserves ;  we 
must  set  down  each  item  of  pleasure 
fairly.  I  wonder  if  we  can  do  it !' 
Blanche  said,  with  a  blush  begin- 
ning to  rise  on  her  face.  'You 
commence,  Miss  Talbot.' 

Trisy  shook  her  head.  'No! 
what  moral  is  there  in  being  fair  ? 
What  is  the  use  of  trying  to  ana- 
lyse happiness  ?  We  can  t  do  it — 
no  one  can  do  it ;  can  we,  Lionel  ?' 

'Any  how  we  can  try,'  Frank 
Bathurst  interrupted  before  Lionel 
could  reply,  and  Blanche  encou- 
raged him  by  saying, 

'  Hear  the  laughing  philosopher ! 
I  believe  you  do  know,  Frank! 
I  believe  that  you  are  the  excep- 
tional being  who  is  neither  above 
being  happy  or  saying  what  makes 
him  so.  You  don't  vainly  sigh  after 
perfect  elements  that  are  never  at- 
tained. We  will  hear  your  list  first, 
it  will  nerve  the  rest.  Now  begin. 
You  are  happy  because ' 

'  That  sounds  like  the  answer  to 
a  conundrum,  or  the  commence- 
ment of  a  game,  "  I  love  my  love 


with  an  '  S,'  because  he  is  stupid 
and  not  psychological."  My  list  of 
joys  do  you  want?  It  is  a  short 
but  all-sufficient  one.  I  am  with 
you  in  idleness  and  June!' 

'  The  reasons  we  have  assigned 
for  Mr.Talbot's  content  are  sounder,' 
Blanche  Lyon  replied,  coolly.  '  Now 
for  yours,  Miss  Talbot !' 

Trixy  had  grown  pale  as  Mr. 
Bathurst  spoke  —  pale  "nitli  the 
pained  consciousness  that  the  man 
she  loved  was  speaking  words  of 
flattery  that  were  still  words  of 
truth  to  the  careless  winner  of  all 
his  kindest  thoughts.  '  1  am  with 
you  in  idleness  and  June,'  he  had 
said,  writing  himself  down  by  the 
utterance  as  much  his  own  lover  as 
Blanche's.  '  He  was  a  selfish  Syba- 
rite,' Trixy  told  herself  as  she  looked 
at  him  lying  there  on  the  sward 
that  was  warmed  by  the  sun — the 
sun  that  followed  the  fashion  of 
sublunary  things,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
touched  Frank  Bathurst  more  ten- 
derly than  it  did  aught  else.  Far 
more  tenderly  than  it  did  the  girl 
who  was  gazing  on  him  with  the 
yearning  gaze  of  genuine  affection 
— it  dazzled,  bewildered,  scorched 
her  ;  for  when  the  heart  is  hot  and 
restless  externals  are  potent,  then 
pleasure  is  a  pain.  Those  words 
that  he  had  said  to  Blanche  Lyon 
were  soft  and  sweet,  gallant  and 
gentle  in  themselves,  and  so  only 
were  what  a  man's  utterance  ought 
to  be  to  a  woman,  but  they  sounded 
harshly  and  horribly  in  Trixy 's  ears. 
*  I  am  with  you  in  idleness  and 
June.'  His  list  of  the  joys  that 
made  his  life  so  pleasant  a  thing  at 
this  juncture  began  aud  ended  in 
that  one  sentence.  Trixy 's  heart 
ached  as  she  took  this  truth  home 
to  it — but  she  went  on  loving  him 
just  as  well  as  before. 

'  Now  for  your  list,  Miss  Talbot,' 
Blanche  repeated;  and  Trixy  replied, 
'  I  have  none  to  give,'  imjjatiently. 
She  was  not  at  all  well  inclined  to 
make  a  study  of  her  own  sensations, 
for  she  more  than  suspected  that 
when  too  curiously  inspected  there 
would  be  seen  the  '  little  rift '  which 
should  by-and-by  '  make  all  music 
mute  '  in  her  soul.  The  request  that 
she  would  name  the  cai;ses  which 
conduced  to  her  happiness,  made 


408 


Playing  for  High  Slakes. 


her  think,  and  Tvhen  she  came  to 
think  she  knew  that  she  was  not 
altogttlier  happy.  She  l^came  con- 
scions  of  King  jealons,  foarfnl  ami 
hopeful  at  tlie  same  time— all  about 
a  man  who  toKl  anotlur  woman  that 
it  was  sutlicieut  joy  to  him  to  Ih) 
'  with  ht-r  in  idleness  and  June.' 
'  When  sorrow  sleeixth  wake  it  not ' 
is  a  sound  i>iece  of  good  advice. 
Trixy  resolved  that  she  would  not 
more  thoroughly  arouse  the  three 
passions  that  were  tormenting  her  by 
investigating  tht-m,  so  .she  answered, 
*  I  havu  none  to  give,'  rather  more 
decidedly  tlian  suited  the  nature  of 
the  conversation ;  and  Blanche 
flushed  rather  painfully  under  the 
consciousness  of  lieing  thought  fri- 
volous by  Lionel  Talbot's  sister. 

'  Have  you  none  to  give  either, 
Lai  ?'  Frank  Bathurst  asked,  getting 
a  half  inch  further  away  from 
Beatrix  and  nearer  to  Blanche  and 
a  broader  sunl)eam  as  lie  spoke. 
Miss  Talbot's  tone  had  chilled  him 
a  little.  Uis  ear  was  very  finely 
attuned,  and  Trixy 's  voice  seemed 
steady  unto  sternness.  The  poor 
girl  was  in  such  terrible  earnest 
that  she  could  not  seize  each  point 
and  make  the  most  of  the  cards  she 
held,  as  a  cooler  headedand  hearted 
woman  might  have  done.  Frank 
Bathurst  liked  to  hear  a  sweet  voice 
falter;  it  told  him  a  tale  usually  of 
feeling  suppressed  with  dilliculty, 
and  called  into  Uing  by  him.  But 
Beatrix,  who  was  faltering  inwardly, 
made  an  effort  out  of  that  partly  in- 
herent, partly  taught 'self  res]>ect' 
which  makes  women  hide  the  dart 
that  wounds  them  the  deepest — she 
made  this  effort,  and  her  tone 
seemed  stern,  'utterly  devoid  of 
that  soft  sym])athetic  inflexion 
which  marked"  I'.lanche's,'  he  said  to 
himself  when  Miss  Lyon  backed 
his  app<al  to  Lionel  by  saying — 

'  \Vill  you  say  you  have  none  to 
give,  Mr.  Tall»ot?'  And  Lionel's 
eyes  fix<'d  them.selves  on  hers  as 
they  ha<l  never  done  before,  as  ho 
replied  — 

'  Will  you  say  that  I  am  merely 
plaginri.->ir/g Franks  happy  thought, 
when  I  give  as  my  reaKons  for  hap- 
pines-s  the  tacts  that  "I  am— and  am 
here?"' 

'  And  they  are  cnotigh— for  the 


present,' Blanche  said  quickly.  'At 
any  rate  they  are  the  very  ones  I 
should  have  given  if  I  had  l)een 
clever  enough  to  say  exactly  what  I 
meant  and  no  more;  but  you  would 
soon  want  more  than  "  idleness  and 
June." ' 

'  You  are  not  quoting  me  fairly/ 
Frank  Bathurst  exclaimed.  '  You 
say  Lionel  would  .soon  want  more, 
as  if  he  were  very  superior  in  his 
requirements  to  me.  I  al.-^o  should 
soon  want  more  than  you  have 
mentioned— you  have  left  out  the 
chief  ingredient  I  named.' 

'  Does  he  not  litter  fixlso  coin 
neatly?' Blanche  as'ked,  turning  her 
head  gaily  towards  Miss  Talbot. 
Li  a  moment  the  quick,  kindly, 
womanly  instinct  made  her  glance 
away  again,  for  Trixy,  though  she 
got  out  her  '  Yes,  very,'  gallantly, 
had  the  tell-tale  look  of  terrible 
earnestness  upon  her,  and  super- 
added to  that  earnestness  was  the 
dread  that  the  coin  might  bo  real  in 
which  the  flattery  was  paid. 

'  I  have  another  source  of  joy,' 
Frank  Bathurst  resumed.  '  The 
aborigines  have  not  been  down  upon 
us  overwhelmingly  yet;  I  am  be- 
ginning to  hftpe  that  I  have  found 
the  spot  of  earth  where  civilization 
is  far  enough  advanced  for  a  man 
to  1)0  credited  with  the  sensible 
preference  for  dining  in  comfort  in 
ins  own  hou.«c  rather  than  for  going 
in  discomfort  to  his  neighbour's.' 

'  We  have  only  been  here  one 
week,'  Mis^s  Lyon  remarked. 

'  And  how  we  might  have  sufiFered 
in  that  time— not  from  dinners,  but 
from  the  anticipation  of  them! 
^^'omen  are  never  projierly  grateful 
for  being  neglected.  For  my  part, 
"Times  sands  may  eea.se  to  flow, 
false  pleasures  to  delude,"  ere  I  for^ 
get  the  claimsof  gratitude  thisncigh- 
iHiurhood  has  established  on  mo  for 
letting  me  alone  to  enjoy  myself  in 
the  way  I  like  best.' 

'  I  am  quite  as  alive  to  the  nega- 
tive favour  shown  as  you  can  be, 
Init  I  cannot  forget  that  we  have 
only  been  here  a  week ;  this  is 
Saturday.  I  jtrophesy  that  after 
our  second  appearance  in  church 
to-morrow,  we  may  as  well  go  back 
to  London  for  all  the  peace  we  shall 
know.' 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


409 


*Do  yon  mean  that  the  native 
hordes  will  ]50ur  themselves  into 
our  Haldon?  Cease  to  exercise 
your  prophetic  gift,  sybil,  if  you 
can  foreshadow  notliing  i^leasanter 
concerning  our  futiue.  "  Trained 
to  the  chase,  my  eagle  eye  "  discerns 
unmanageable  bodies  of  bores  in 
the  distance.  You  have  made  me 
very  miserable,  Miss  Lyon :  cast  a 
further  spell  around  me,  and  soothe 
me  back  to  bliss  again.' 

Mr.  Bathurst  gatliered  himself  up 
from  his  recumbent  position  at  his 
cousin's  side  as  he  spoke,  and  went 
into  a  half-kneeling  posture  at  her 
feet,  and  she,  falling  into  his  humour 
for  the  moment,  said,  as  she  i^lucked 
a  gorgeous  crimson  poppy  from  the 
bank  at  her  side — 

'  Yours  shall  be  "  the  Childe's 
destiny."  I  will  bind  this  flower 
(it  induces  oblivion,  you  know)  on 
your  brow. 

* "  I'll  sign  you  with  a  sign  : 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 
No  woman's  heart  he  thine."  ' 

'  How  can  you  say  such  things, 
even  in  what  you  call  fun  ?'  Trixy 
asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

'  I  defy  such  spells,' Mr.  Bathurst 
said  as  he  bent  his  head  lower  be- 
fore, the  lady  who  was  fixing  the 
poppy  in  his  glengarry.  And  Lionel 
Talbot  chanted — 

•  "  No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill. 
No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill, 
To  read  the  stars  for  him."  ' 

'What  are  you  talking  about?' 
Frank  asked,  impatiently. 

'  Showing  Miss  Lyon  that  I  knew 
the  source  from  whence  she  is 
drawing  her  spell — or  the  words  of 
it  rather,'  Lionel  replied.  '  Are  you 
going  to  promise  him  the  "  brightest 
smiles  that  ever  beauty  wore,  and 
the  friendship  which  is  only  not 
love,"  Miss  Lyon  ?' 

'  No,'  she  said,  throwing  her  head 
back  a  little,  and  holding  her  hand 
up  to  command  attention  still.  '  No 
— the  last  verse  fits  him  best.  Be 
grateful  to  me,  Frank,  for — 

'  "  I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 
Which  others  feel  or  feign, 
From  anger  and  from  jealousy, 
From  doubt  and  from  disdain. 


'  ■'  I  bid  thee  wear  tlie  scorn  of  years 
Upon  tlio  chcclc  of  youth. 
And  curl  the  lip  at  passion's  tears, 
And  bhalvc  the  head  at  truth. 

'  "  While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 
Forgetfuliicss  in  wine, 
Be  tliou  from  woman's  love  as  free 
As  woman  is  from  thine !"  ' 

'  Good !'  he  cried,  jumping  up, 
'  while  there  is,  and  "  only  "  while 
there  is  bliss  in  those  things.  Now 
you  shall  see  me  defy  my  bright 
fate.  I  will  take  weapons  from  the 
same  armoury,  and  tell  you  that  the 
web  of  indifference  you  have  woven 
for  me  shall  be  rent — 

'  "  For  I  have  learnt  to  watch  and  wake, 
And  swear  by  eartli  and  sky, 
And  I  am  very  bold  to  take  " — 

Do  you  believe  me?' 

'  Yes,  thoroughly ;  but  you  must 
alter  before  you  will  be  able  to  take 
anything  worth  having.  "  The  lips 
are  lightly  begged  or  bought — the 
heart  may  not  be  thine,"  unless  you 
alter  and  grow  earnest,'  Blanche 
replied. 

'  We  shall  see.  It  would  be  against 
your  own  interest,  as  successful  pro- 
phetess, to  teach  me  to  be  earnest, 
I  suppose  ?' 

*  I  never  could  be  in  earnest  with 
you,'  she  said  distinctly,  and  as  she 
said  so  a  doubt  as  to  the  real  destiny 
of  the  Daphne  crossed  his  mind  for 
the  first  time.  Circumstantial  evi- 
dence was  strongly  in  favour  of 
Blanche  having  gathered  in  the 
bloom  he  had  wasted  ;  but  circum- 
stantial evidence  is  false  frequently, 
and  '  women  are  rum  animals '  he 
reflected  as  he  remembered  all 
Blanche's  past  sweetness  to  him, 
and  all  her  present  cool  assumption 
of  the  possibility  of  his  never  really 
loving  or  being  loved. 

He  did  incline  to  this  brilliant- 
plumaged  bird  very  kindly  indeed. 
Perhaps  his  reasons  for  doing  so  were 
not  altogether  above  reproach  ;  but 
at  any  rate,  as  reasons  go,  they  are 
all-sufiicient  for  the  purposes  of  this 
story.  It  was  quite  upon  the  cards 
that  he  should  surrender  his  own 
judgment  to  her,  if  she  would  accept 
the  charge,  and  feel  no  shame,  but 
rather  a  conscientious  satisfaction  in 
Eo  doing.  He  felt  intuitively,  with- 
out working  out  the  problem, '  why 
it  was  so/  that  she  was  as  good  as 


410 


Playing  for  Jliijh  Si'aJces. 


sho  was  fair:  not  an  anpel,  far 
reiuovocl  from  anvthiiif:^  of  that  sort, 
but  a  very  woiiuui,  good  auil  t-'raoc- 
ful  too.  and  perhaps  ever  so  little 
disposed  to  show  that  sho  was  both 
thinjis  witlioiit  effort. 

'  CnKHl,"  and  '  graceful/  and  gifted 
with  the  power  of  putting  herself 
in  a  good  light  before  all  men. 
Frank  liathurst  prided  himself  much 
on  the  perfect  tact  which  led  the 
woman  lie  was  admiring  (and  who 
was  doubtless  admiring  him)  to 
make  herself  'charming'  to  Lionel 
Tallxjt,  as  they  walked  up  to  the 
house.  It  may  be  that,  if  he  bad 
heard  what  the  pair  under  con- 
sideration Were  saying,  his  appre- 
ciation of  Blanche's  tact  might  have 
been  les.s  perfect  than  it  was. 

'  You  seem  to  l>e  well  acquainted 
with  Praed,  Miss  Lyon ;  what  cha- 
racteristic is  it  that  has  so  won  your 
approval  ?' 

'  I  think  it's  his  generosity,'  she 
answered,  ([uickly ;  '  I  never  tliought 
about  why  1  liked  him  until  you 
asketl  me:  his  rhymes  all  fall  in,  in 
b<^>autiful  order,  and  that  pleases  my 
ear,  of  course ;  but  he's  always 
kiutlly  and  generous  towards  us 
women,  even  when  he  lilts  the  lay 
oftlie  jilted.  He  "never  will  up- 
braid," and  that  is  .so  nice,  beeause 
he  had  it  in  him  to  xipbraid  so 
bitterlv.  Do  you  know  that  poem 
of  his,'"  The  Last  ?"  ' 

'  I  know  it,'  he  .said.  They  were 
some  way  ahead  of  Frank  and  Trixy 
now,  and  Blanrhe's  l>eaming  face 
was  iield  towards  him  eagerly,  in- 
spired by  the  interest  she  felt  in  the 
discussion  of  the  moral  merits  of 
Praecl's  pcKius.  He  knew  a  great 
deal  aliout  the  girl  in  a  minute. 
He  fathomed  much  that  she  had 
felt  and  was  feeling.  He  realized 
that  life  is  short,  and  the  truth  of 
the  aphorism  that  '  the  devil  takes 
the  hindmost'  in  most  races  camo 
home  to  him.  He  was  thrown  off 
his  balance,  in  fact,  and  so  he  spoke 
too  wx)n,  and  ho  faid  tfX)  little. 

'  Yes,  I  know  "  'the  Ijist ;"  my 
favourite  verse  at  this  moment  is 
the  fourth — 

'  "  I  think  that  jroo  will  love  w  itlU. 
Thoiipli  f»r  oiir  f»to«  may  br, 
Arxl  ih.it  your  hoart  will  f.,n,ll^  thriU 
Wbcn  tlruiftn  ask  of  mc. 


'•  •  My  pmise  will  be  your  proudest  theme 
When  those  brif^ht  day?  are  past; 
if  thU  be  nil  an  Idle  drcaiu, 
1 1  is  my  lust  ?"  ' 

There  was  interrogation— mean- 
ing deep  and  intense  in  the  tone 
in  which  he  uttered  the  words. 
For  a  few  minutes  tho  woman's 
weaknes.s  conijueied  the  woman's 
will,  and  IMaiicho  Lyon,  desperate 
in  love,  was  feeble  lu  action  and 
insincere  in  word. 

'If  I  dared,  if  I  dared,'  she 
stuttere<l ;  and  while  he  was  think- 
ing that  sho  dared  not  '  love  him 
still,'  and  '  proudly  thrill '  to  bis 
praise,  iMjcause  of  some  prior  claim 
on  her — while  he  was  thinking  still, 
and  she  was  hesitating  only  liecause 
he  did  not  bid  her  not  to  hesitate, 
the  others  came  uji,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity was  gone. 

He  had  spoken  too  soon.  He  felt 
that  he  had  spoken  too  soon  as  he 
looked  at  the  home  they  were 
Hearing,  and  knew  that  it  might  be 
Blanche  Lyon's  if  no  one  intervened 
between  her  and  Frank.  And  she 
felt  bitterly  that  he  had  said  too 
little,  and  thought  hard  things  of 
the  social  bonds  which  ])revented 
her  inciting  him  to  say  a  little  more, 
and  found  Frank  Batlmrst's  ani- 
mation oppressive,  and  was  alto- 
gether in(iisposed  to  believe  in  the 
silver  lining  to  this  teuiporary  cloud. 
'"  Misfortunes  rarely  come  singly:" 
listen,'  she  quoted  irrelevantly  (for- 
getting that  tho  others  were  ignorant 
ofwliat  sho  deemed  a  misfortune); 
then  they  all  followed  her  example, 
and  paused  to  listen  to  the  sound  of 
wheels,  and  ])resijitly  a  ponderous 
carriage  swept  round  the  curve  of 
the  drive,  and  they  knew  that  tho 
flood-gates  of  society  were  opened, 
and  that  their  happy  lotus-eating 
days  were  over. 

'  Let  us  be  grateful  for  that  it  has 
lx?en  but  a  brief  infliction,'  Frank 
said,  when  the  visitor— a  lady  who 
had  come  in  kindliness  to  ask  them 
to  an  archery  me<'ting— hail  departed 
again,  feeling  verj*  dissatisfied  with 
Mrs.  Lyon's  fitness  for  the  part  of 
ehaperone,  and  very  much  staggered 
at  tho  ]x;rfect  propriety  which 
marked  tho  demeanour  of  tho  daring 
IMiss  Lyon,  who  'had  refused  her 
father's   request,  and    her    uncle's 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


411 


fortune,  and  after  all  had  now  como 
down  to  try  and  catch  Mr.  Bathur^t, 
so  i:»eoj)lo  said.' 

'  I  think  her  most  pleasant/  Mrs. 
Lyon  interposed,  hastily;  'most 
pleasant  and  agreeable,'  she  repeated, 
emphatically ;  and  Frank  replied— 

'So  (lid  I ;  but  you  will  under- 
stand that— 

'  "It  was  frightful  here  to  see 
A  lady  richly  clad  as  she  " 

when  1  came  in,  conscious  of  grass- 
seeds  in  my  moustache,  and  dead 
leaves  on  the  back  of  my  coat,  and 
an  all-pervading  sensation  of  disin- 
clination to  speak  to  uninteresting 
people.  Miss  Lyon  shared  my  sen- 
timents. I  could  see  by  her  face 
that  she  wds  bored— that  we  were 
sympathetic  again,  in  fact.' 

He  spoke  half  laughingly,  half 
tenderly ;  looking  at  her  the  while 
with  a  clear,  full  gaze,  that  seemed 
to  make  sure  of  being  kindly  met, 
and  answered.  He  had  often  looked 
at  her  so  of  late,  and  Blanche  had 
accepted  the  frank  offering  frankly. 
But  to-day  another  had  gone  deeper 
into  her  soul  than  Frank,  with  all 
his  bright  -  heartedness,  and  easy 
Batisfaction  with  himself,  could  ever 
go.  She  moved  impatiently  under 
his  observation :  she  resented  his 
declaration  as  to  the  sympathy  be- 
tween them.  'Miss  Lyon  did  no- 
thing of  the  sort;  she  Avas  bored 
about  something  else,'  she  said, 
wearily.  '  Sympathetic !  you  are  far 
away  from  knowing  the  meaning  of 
the  word  if  you  think  I  was  that 
with  you  just  now.' 

'You  are  growing  quite  earnest 
in  your  denial !  And  don't  I  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word  ?'  He  was 
a  vain  young  fellow,  but  there  was 
something  winning  in  his  vanity  at 
most  times,  to  most  women— some- 
thing specially  winning  in  it  to 
Blanche.  But  to-day  she  lacked 
patience  for  it  among  other  things. 
She  had  known  him  for  a  butterfly 
all  along,  she  told  herself;  and  she 
had  thought  that  a  butterfly  must 
ever  be  a  pleasing  and  welcome 
object  about  one's  path,  whatever 
the  weather.  Now  she  found  that 
sunshine  was  a  chief  condition :  the 
butterfly  was  out  of  place  now  a 
cloud  had  arisen  on  her  horizon.  It 
ii-ritated  her  that  he  should  seek  to 


put  her  in  the  position  of  under- 
standing him  more  clearly  than  the 
others  did,  when  she  did  not  desire 
to  understand  liim  better.  It  roused 
her  enprit  da  corpa  when  he  repeated, 
in  his  merry,  vaunting,  successful 
manner, '  Don't  I  know  the  meaning 
of  the  word  ?  More  women  have 
been  sympathetic  with  me  than  I 
would  care  to  count.'  Affectionately 
fond  as  she  was  of  him,  she  could 
not  resist  replying,  when  he  said 
that — 

'  Leporello  sings  the  list  of  names : 
a  genuine  Don  Juan  would  tcorn 
to  proclaim  his  own  doughty  deeds.' 
'  I  was  not  boasting,'  he  exclaimed, 
quickly,  and  his  fair  face  coloui'ed 
like  a  girl's  as  he  spoke. 

'  Were  you  not  ?'  Blanche  replied, 
carelessly ;  '  there  was  a  tone  about 
the  speech  that  we  may  be  forgiven 
for  having  mistaken  for  boasting; 
may  we  not,  Miss  Talbot  ?' 

'  A  tone  you  have  never  been  hard 
upon  before,'  Trixy  replied.  She 
saw  his  faults  too ;  but  she  would 
have  touched  them  so  tenderly  her- 
self, that  it  almost  pained  her  to  see 
them  roughly  torn  into  the  light  by 
another :  esiDecially  did  she  dislike 
seeing  them  torn  into  the  light  by 
Blanche  Lyon.  It  was  hard,  woe- 
fully hard,  to  Trixy  to  see  the  man 
she  loved  laying  himself  open  to  the 
feminine  sarcasms  of  her  rival ;  to 
see  him  accepting  rebukes,  rather 
than  nothing,  at  Miss  Lyon's  hands ; 
hard  to  mark  him  as  so  willing  to 
put  himself  at  Miss  Lyon's  feet;  and 
perhaps  harder  still  to  mark  that 
Miss  Lyon  did  not  deem  it  a  price- 
less boon  that  he  should  be  there. 
To  be  rivalled  at  all  is  horrible :  to 
be  rivalled  by  one  who  does  not 
even  deign  to  seem  to  care  to  rival 
is  humiliating.  So  Trixy  Talbot  said 
that  Blanche  '  bad  never  been  hard 
upon  that  tone  before ;'  and  Frank's 
blue  eyes  sought  his  cousin's,  and 
seemed  to  implore  her  to  endorse 
the  statement. 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

AN  HOUR  OF  BLISS. 

They  had  all— she,  the  woman  he 
loved,  amongst  the  number— spoken 
of  bim  and  his  possible  occupation 


412 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


so  liphtly  nnrl  onrclossly  down  by 
the  lako,  nn<l  in  vory  truth  lie  liad 
lx?en  knowing  niudi  liitttrness.  TIio 
shadow  of  the  Iilow  tlmt  had  fallen 
was  upon  liiin,  oven  wlicn  ho  came 
down  to  llaldon ;  hnt  the  Mow  it- 
self Iiad  not  descended  until  tliis 
morninji,  when  he  read  at  tlie  break- 
fast table  that  tlio  one  coiiipany  in 
which  he  had  l)een  well  wainmted, 
by  most  exemjilary  example,  to  have 
trust,  had  enf,'ulfed  itself,  and  all 
who  liad  faith,  or  at  least  money,  in 
it,  in  unriualiCied  ruin. 

Edgar  Talbot  was  not  endowed 
with  the  jJii/si'jiK  that  enables  a  man 
to  rise  up  i)Uojantly  under  a  sense 
of  utter  conuuercial  discomfiture. 
Perhaps  the  men  who  can  do  this 
are  about  in  the  world  somewhere, 
but  it  has  never  been  my  lot  to 
meet  them  out  of  print;  and  as  I 
seek  to  i)aint  from  the  life,  1  will  tell 
of  that  I  have  seen  alone.  \Vhilo 
his  sister,  and  his  friends,  and,  above 
all,  the  woman  he  loved,  were  down 
by  the  lake, '  patherint,' '  the  odorous 
roses  of  love  and  youth,  of  idleness 
and  June — while  they  were  doing 
tbi.s,  according  to  their  different 
degrees,  Edgar  Talbot  was  going 
through  several  phases  of  well- 
developed  agony  and  despair. 

From  the  date  at  which  ho  com- 
menced thinking  about  life,  and  the 
responsibilities  of  life  at  all,  he  had 
set  him.self  the  congenial  task  of 
amassing  such  a  fortune  as  should 
make  his  family  (that  is,  himself) 
important  and  considerable.  In  the 
fultilment  of  this  resolve  he  had 
exerci.sed  self-restraint  and  denial  of 
no  mean  order  for  many  years.  IIo 
htu\  rigorously  ordered  his  cour.«e, 
abstaining  from  much  that  was 
harmless,  becau.so  it  was  not  pro- 
fitable, and  from  a  little  that  was 
profitable  btcauFc  it  was  not  harm- 
less, it  may  Ih)  added  to  his  credit. 
IIo  had  hild  aloof  fn^m  society, 
women,  wine,  and  other  expensive 
things ;  ami  ho  had  his  reward  for 
this  alislinence  in  being  well  reputed 
and  rich  at  an  age  when  many  of 
his  compeers  were  iKjing  repudiated 
for  l»eing  such  reprol)ates  as  to  l>e 
compelled  to  retrench.  It  liad  iK-en 
very  well  with  him,  in  fact,  when 
he  first  saw  iJlanclu!  Lyon.  Then 
he  comuicnccd  perpetrating  a  series 


of  mistakes.  First  ho  fell  in  love 
with  a  '  tochcrle.ss'  lass  with  a  long 
]K'digree;  then  he  made  resolutions 
conciruing  her  which  he  had  not 
the  i)ower  to  keep;  and,  finally,  lie 
]>layed  higher  than  ever  for  fortune's 
favours,  in  order  that  ho  might 
aflord  such  a  luxury  as  IMiss  Lyon 
for  a  wife  without  cost  to  his  own 
conscience.  And  now  the  end  had 
come! 

The  end!  Such  a  black,  bitter, 
hard,  ruinous  end  as  it  was,  too. 
lie  had  lost  all  that  was  his  own, 
and  much  that  was  not  his  own,  and 
he  knew  that  all  would  call  him  a 
fool,  and  some  might  call  him  a 
swindler.  IIo  had  advised  others  to 
act  as  he  had  done,  and  the  others 
would  not  now  be  slow  to  remember 
that  he  had  so  advised  them.  He 
had  impoverished  one  sister,  and  left 
another  ])cnniless.  He  had  no  hope, 
reasonable  or  the  reverse,  of  over 
entering  upon  that  exciting  career 
which  had  been  as  the  breath  of 
life  to  him.  His  life,  as  it  would 
and  must  be,  stretched  itself  out 
before  him  in  vivid  colours  and 
clearly-cut  lines;  and  he  looked  at 
it,  and  saw  it  as  it  was — a  life  of 
toil  and  obscurity — and  knew  that 
he  must  live  it.  His  career — that 
whii'h  is  to  a  man  what  love  is  to 
a  woman — was  dead,  and  ho  stood 
at  its  bier  knowing  that  there  would 
be  no  resuscitation.  As  this  know- 
ledge was  driven  deeper  and  deejier 
into  his  mind,  he  went  through 
some  of  the  hardest  pains  of  the 
most  horrible  Inferno.  There  was  no 
compensation  to  him  in  any  ]in)babIo 
combination  of  circumstances  that 
might  befall  him.  Had  he  Ikjcq 
able  to  realise  it  at  once  he  would 
not  have  accepted  the  love  of  the 
woman  for  whom  he  hail  a  ])assion 
as  part  payment  fen*  what  he  had 
lost.  In  one  way  it  was  all  over 
with  him,  and  he  laid  no  flattering 
false  uuction  to  his  soul  on  the 
subject. 

Still,  devoid  as  he  was  of  that  sort 
of  half- poetic,  half- weakly  sensibility 
which  makes  some  gentle-natured 
people  turn  tearfully  to  friendship  ^ 
and  love  in  all  trouldes  that  assail 
them — devoid  as  he  was  of  this,  her 
did  think  once  or  twice,  as  Ik;  wrote 
resiiouses  to  the  notes  of  ruin  which 


Playing  for  High  StaJces. 


413 


had  sounded  in  his  ears  this  morn- 
ins,  of  Blanche  Lyon.  Ho  did  not 
tell  himself  that  he  should  turn 
from  ambition  to  love — find  conso- 
lation in  her  caresses,  and  an  incen- 
tive to  ignominiously  obscure  indus- 
try in  her  wifely  smiles  and  womanly 
satisfaction,  witli  the  poor  lot  he 
could  ofl'er  her  instead  of  the  rich 
one  he  might  have  offered  her.  Eut 
he  told  himself  that  come  what 
would  she  should  be  his  wife  if  he 
could  get  her.  He  was  a  practical 
man,  barren  of  all  poetical  feeling 
to  a  degree  that  may  or  may  not  be 
rare,  but  tliat  at  any  rate  was  great. 
He  was  also  a  passionate  man, 
and  his  passion  for  Blanche  was  of 
the  sort  that  made  him  feel  that 
any  fate  which  could  be  endured  by 
him  could  be  endured  by  her.  She 
came  into  the  consideration  of  his 
plans,  which  may  be  accepted  as  a 
proof  that  he  loved  her.  Whether 
that  love  was  selfish  or  not  is  a 
hard  question  for  a  third  person  to 
answer. 

'  Talbot  looks  as  if  he  had  had  a 
tight  time  of  it,'  Frank  Bathurst 
muttered  to  Lionel  when  Mr.  Tal- 
bot came  and  joined  them  at  the 
luncheon  table  at  last,  and  Lionel, 
looking  at  his  brother's  face,  read 
there  that  it  was  even  so  as  Frank 
said,  for  the  signs  of  the  warfare  in 
which  he  had  been  worsted  were 
about  him  still,  visibly  about  him  ; 
even  the  ladies  saw  the  signs  and 
were  more  subdued  than  the  day 
deserved  they  should  be. 

'  We're  almost  by  way  of  being 
strangers  some  way  or  other,'  Frank 
Bathurst  said,  in  continuation  of  the 
subject,  later  in  the  day,  when  he 
and  Lionel  were  alone  together ; 
'  otherwise  if  anything  is  a  little  off 
the  line  it  might  be  righted  again ; 
but  a  fellow  doesn't  care  to  broach 
the  business  with  a  reserved  man 
hke  Talbot.' 

'  I  am  afraid  something  is  more 
than  a  little  off  the  line,'  Lionel  re- 
plied. '  Edgar  is  not  a  man  to  be 
beaten  by  a  trifle,  and  he  is  beaten 
now;  I'll  give  him  a  chance  of  tell- 
ing me  if  he  likes  by-and-by ;  but  I 
will  not  press  him.' 

'  Give  him  to  understand  that  if 
I  can  help  him,  and  he  does  not 
take  my  help,  it  will  be  a  slight  on 


your  feeling  for  and  interest  in  him, 
for  you'll  advise  him  to  Lai  won't 
you  ?' 

'  Advise  him  what  ?' 

'  To  let  me  help  him.' 

'  If  he  is  beaten,  as  I  fear  it  woi;ld 
be  snatching  at  a  straw  simi)ly  to 
take  such  help  as  you  could  give 
him,  Frank  ;  however,  I  shall  liear.' 

He  did  hear  in  time,  but  not  that 
day  ;  there  could  be  no  good  gained, 
Edgar  Talbot  argued,  by  talking 
about  things  before  he  was  com- 
pelled to  talk  about  them.  Lionel 
woiild  know  quite  soon  enough  that 
his  own  5000Z.  had  gone  the  way  of 
the  bulk  of  his  father's  property. 
Trixy  would  play  the  cards  she 
held  in  her  hand  better  while  her 
mind  was  undisturbed  by  the  know- 
ledge of  the  utter  ruin  in  which  her 
guardian  brother  was  steeped.  As 
Mr.  Tall)ot  thought  this  he  seemed 
to  see  light  in  the  darkness.  His 
sister  did  hold  good  cards  in  her 
hand  if  she  only  played  them  pro- 
perly. With  Frank  Bathurst  for 
a  brother-in-law,  he  might  even 
yet ' 

'  Do  you  know  what  Bathurst  has 
a  year  ?'  he  asked  abruj^tly  of  Lionel, 
and  Lionel  replied — 

'  About  twelve  thousand,  I  be- 
lieve,' and  fell  into  a  reverie  on  the 
subject  of  Avhether  or  not  it  would 
be  shared  by  Blanche  Lyon. 

Thej''  never  sat  long  over  their 
wine  after  the  ladies  had  left  them 
in  this  arcadian  Bohemia  of  Haldon. 
The  daylight  w^as  but  just  dying  off 
the  sky  wiien  Lionel,  followed  by 
Frank  Bathurst,  came  to  the  two 
girls  in  the  drawing-room  and  asked 
'  which  was  to  reign  to-night,  moon- 
light or  melody  ?' 

'  Put  the  alternatives  more  clearly 
before  us,  Mr.  Talbot,'  Blanche  an- 
swered, moving  a  little  nearer  to  the 
window,  .which  was  open,  as  she 
spoke. 

'Well,  shall  we  go  out  on  the 
lawn,  or  shall  we  sit  by  the  piano, 
and  hear  Trixy  and  you  sing '?' 

'  You  won't  hear  Trixy  sing  to- 
night, Lionel,'  that  young  lady  put 
in  hurriedly. 

*  What  does  Miss  Lyon  say  ?' 

*  The  lawn  is  so  much  sweeter 
than  my  own  voice  that  I  am  going 
out  to  enjoy  it,'  Blanche  replied. 


•114 


Playing  for  High  Slakes. 


walking  thronph  the  window  ns  slio 
spoke.  Lionel  followed  her  wil- 
liuRly  luongli,  niul  so  it  camo  to 
pass  tlhit  lUalrix  fouiui  lursclfaloue 
with  Frank  IJathurst,  or  as  j^o.xl  as 
alone,  Mrs.  Lyon  l>cinp  at  tho  far 
end  of  the  room  fiust  asltep. 

Sho  wa.s  very  fond  of  him— so 
fond  ot  liim  that  sho  forgave  him 
all  his  little  attentions  to  Blanche 
and  all  his  little  inattentions  to  her- 
self, tljongh  iKith  Were  very  patent 
to  her— so  fond  of  him  that  she  was 
ready,  ay  ready,  to  hear  the  faint 
sound  of  encouragement  which  lier 
own  heart  offered  to  herself  as  she 
marked  that  he  did  not  seem  very 
anxious  to  leave  lier  and  follow 
Blanche.  Certainly  he  did  say, 
'  Do  you  not  care  for  the  lawn  to- 
night?' but  when  she  shook  her 
head  in  the  negative,  and  seated 
henself  on  the  window-sill,  ho  drew 
a  low  chair  close  opposite  to  her, 
and  placed  himself  ui^on  it,  and 
looked  quite  ready  to  resume  his 
old  fervent  admiration  for  her  hair 
and  eyes. 

'  Why  will  you  not  sing  to-night  V 
be  liegan. 

'  I  am  not  in  tunc.' 
'  N(jr  was  1  quite  till  I  sat  down 
here  and  looked  at  yon.  I  am  sym- 
pathetic, whatever  Blanche  may  say 
to  the  contrary;  your  low  s|)irits 
acted  on  nic,  and  now  that  yon  have 
brightened  I  have  done  the  same.' 

Beatrix  felt  her  brow  burning. 
.She  was  conscious  that  she  had 
brightened]  at  heart  when  he  planted 
hinif-clf  opposite  to  licr,  and  now  it 
was  made  manifest  by  the  manner 
of  his  guzo  at  her— a  gaze  in  which 
there  was  a  little  ajipeal  and  a  good 
deal  of  admiring  audacity— that  she 
had  brightene<l  in  the  face  also. 
Feeling  herself  thrown  off  her  guard, 
it  was  but  natural  that  she  slionld 
endeavour  to  disarm  liim,asit  were. 
So  she  spoke  of  her  rival,  and  spoke 
injudiciously. 

'  Miss  Jiyon  cast  a  spell  over  yon. 
Have  yon  forgotten  it?'  she  asked, 
significantly;  and  ho  accepted  the 
double  meaning,  and  di^jijipointed 
j)'K)r  Trixy  by  saying,  laughingly, 
with  the  fresh,  frank,  oufs|K)ken 
vanity  whicli  so  eminently  charac- 
t'  risfd  him — 
'  Forgotten  it— no,  indeed ;  I  have 


set  myself  a  glorious  task,  !Mi.<!.s 
Tallwt,  to  make  tho  prophetess 
prove  the  falsity  of  her  own  pro- 
phecy.' 

'CJIorious,  indeed,'  Trixy  an- 
swered. 

'Shall  I  find  it  "love's  labour 
lost "  do  you  think  ?'  ho  asked, 
leaning  forward  and  lowering  his 
voice,  and  intonstly  appreciating 
tho  graceful  bend  of  Mi^<s  Talbot's 
head  as  sho  sat  with  her  cheek 
resting  on  her  hand  before  him.  It 
so  i)l(a>;ed  his  taste  to  have  the 
friendship  and  companionship  and 
interest  of  lovely  women,  that  he  al- 
most felt  inclined  to  take  Miss  Tal- 
bot into  his  confidence  concerning 
his  feelings  for  Blanche.  But  he 
forgot  this  inclination,  or,  at  any 
rate,  forbore  to  gratify  it,  when  for 
answer  to  his  last  ((ncstion  Trixy 
gave  a  little  angry  sigh,  and  covered 
lier  eyes  with  her  hand. 

He  loved  beauty,  softness,  senti- 
ment with   all    his  heart  and  .soul. 
If    Blanche    had   been   before   him 
there  would  have  been  a  counter- 
acting influence  in  her  brilliant  pre- 
sence ;  but  as  it  was,  the  seductive 
.softness  of  that  sweet,  reproachful 
sigh  made  him  forget  everything  in 
the  world  but  Trixy  for  a  "time.     It 
was  so  very  much  a  habit  of  his 
to  get  all  he  could  out  of  life,  to 
gather    every  flower,    to   listen   to 
every   sweet  sound,  to  push  every 
jileasant  feeling  to  the  verge,  and  at 
all   times  to  I(;t  his  fancies  lightly 
turn  to  thoughts  of  love;  it  was  so 
very  much  a  habit  of  his  to  do  all 
these  things,  that  it  never  occurred 
to   him  that  ho  might  be  jilaying 
with  fire.     So  now,   in  accordance 
with  the  dictates  of  this  gay  .second 
nature    of    his.    he    IkiiI    towards 
J'.eatrix,  and  asked  her  very  tenderly 
if  he  had  annoyed  her. 
'  No,'  she  said, '  not  annoyed  mo.' 
'  What  is  it  then  ?'  ho  whispered. 
'  Look  up  at  mo  and  tell  me  that  I 
have  not  unwittingly  said  something 
that    pains    ycm.'      And    then   she 
obeyed    him ;    dropped   her   hands 
down,  and  glanced  up  at  him  with 
her  great  loving  violet  eyes.     And 
the   I)eauty   worsliijjper   crnild    but 
look  lovingly  and  earnestly  into  hers 
in  return,  and  feel   very  sorry  that 
the   lamp  and  tea  would  come  in 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


ill 


presently,  and  dispel  the  soft  light 
and  sol'tei'  sensations — looked  at 
her  so  lovingly  and  earnestly,  in- 
deed, that  she  trembled  at  being  so 
near  (as  she  believed)  to  the  bliss 
she  craved,  and  so  said  she  would 
'go  and  look  for  Edgar,'  and  made 
as  though  she  would  rise  as  she 

But  he  stopped  her  by  putting 
his  hand  down  on  hers,  and  saying, 

'  "  No,  no,  stay  with  me  lady  while  you  may, 
For  life's  so  sad— this  hour  's  so  sweet."  ' 

Then  silence  reigned,  and  as  his 
clasp  grew  closer  she  forgot  that 
*  life  is  sad '  in  the  sweetness  of  that 
hour. 

'  What  a  howling  wilderness  tt|is 
will  be  to  Lai  and  me  when  you  all 
go,'  he  said  at  length,  and  his  speech 
slackened  the  spell,  and  Trixy  felt 
herself  able  to  command  her  feelings 
and  release  her  hand. 

'  Oh,  you  will  get  on  very  well 
without  us,'  she  said,  uttering  a 
commonplace  truth  because  it  was 
the  easiest  thing  to  ntter  at  the 
moment.  Then  the  lamp  and  tea 
did  come  in,  and  Frank  sprang  up 
and  offered  her  his  arm,  and  pro- 
posed '  that  they  should  go  and  call 
the  others  in.' 

She  accepted  his  proposal  with  a 
shy  delight  that  was  born  of  the 
hope  she  had  that  when  once  he 
got  her  into  the  garden  he  would 
forget  the  nominal  oliject  of  their 
being  there,  and  think  of  her  alone. 
But  as  soon  as  they  were  outside  he 
proved  himself  to  be  very  much  in 
earnest  in  the  search  by  giving  a 
series  of  call  whistles,  which  were 
soon  answered  by  Lionel.  Then 
they  all  met,  and  the  two  young 
men  sang  a  German  student's  song 
with  an  hilarious  refrain,  and  ro- 
mance was  over  for  that  night  as 
far  as  Beatrix  and  Mr.  Bathurst 
were  concerned. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MISUNDERSTANDING. 

There  had  been  nothing  definite 
said  either  by  Lionel  Talbot  or  Miss 
Lyon  during  that  stroll  they  had 
taken  about  on  the  lawn.  Butsome- 
■how  or  other  it  came  to  them  both 
to  have  a  great  feeling  of  satisfac- 


tion and  security  about  each  other 
and  the  future  before  they  came 
in  to  tea.  The  strain  of  the  morn- 
ing was  not  resumed;  nevertheless 
Blanche  couUl  not  make  any  com- 
plaint of  there  being  a  lack  of  har- 
mony. For  the  first  time  Lionel 
Talbot  spoke  to  her  of  his  future, 
assumed  that  she  felt  an  interest  in 
his  hopes  and  prospects,  and  '  for 
the  first  time  also,'  lie  said,  he  '  be- 
gan to  take  an  interest  in  these 
latter  himself.' 

*  I  shall  never  sacrifice  the  means 
to  the  end,  or  practise  my  art  less 
worthily  for  being  animated  by  the 
hope  of  mere  commercial  success 
attending  it,'  he  had  said  to  her, 
and  she  had  replied — 

'  I  thoroughly  believe  you.  I 
feel  that  it  will  always  be  impos- 
sible for  you  to  seek  any  reward  for 
the  mere  sake  of  the  reward ;  but 
what  has  come  to  you  that  you 
should  even  think  of  "  success,"  Mr. 
Talbot  ?  I  "  don't  own  you,"  as  old 
women  say,  when  you  utter  such 
sentiments.' 

'  Do  they  seem  ignoble  to  you  ?' 

*  No,  indeed,  no ;  but  the  others, 
the  ones  I  heard  from  you,  or  rather 
heard  attributed  to  you,  at  first  were 
so  very  different.  I  thought  you 
were  the  sort  of  man  to  go  on  work- 
ing for  ever,  and  to  be  very  careless 
as  to  whether  the  work  was  ever 
known,  or  seen,  or  valued,  or  paid 
for,  so  long  as  you  yourself  had  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  it  to  be  good 
and  true  work.' 

'You  must  have  thought  me  an 
unpractical  idiot,'  Lionel  said,  laugh- 
ing, '  yet,  to  a  certain  degree,  you 
judged  rightly.  I  did  love  my  art, 
with  a  perfect  love  that  cast  out 
every  other  consideration  tlian  its 
honour  from  my  mind ;  now  I  know 
another  love,  and  it  shall  ennoble 
my  art,  and  my  art  shall  exalt  it. 
Do  I  still  seem  inconsistent?  do 
you  still  refuse  "to  own  me?"  or  do 
you  understand  me?' 

'  I  think  I  do — I  hope  I  do,'  she 
had  answered,  hurriedly ;  and  then 
Frank  Bathurst's  whistle  sounded 
in  their  ears,  and  the  talk  about  the 
translation  of  some  of  Lionel's  theo- 
ries came  to  an  end.  But  Blanche 
had  heard  enough  to  make  her  feel 
sisterly  and   sympathetic    towards 


116 


Playing  for  High  StnJces. 


Beatrix  and  Edpar.  '  Poor  Mr. 
Tallxit,  ho  has  \Kvn  by  himself, 
writiup  letters,  all  day,'  she  said  ; 
'one  of  us  ought  to  take  him  a  cup 
ot  tea,  and  l>opuile  him  hack  ajuonpst 
us.  You  look  tired.  Hiss  Talbot; 
phall  I  po?' 

She  looked  for  an  answer  from 
Lionel,  and  ho  pave  it  quickly,  ro- 
nieml>ering,  with  a  j)anpr,  that  it  was 
thesecoml  time  this  day  tliat  Blanche 
had  remarked  on  his  brother's  al>- 
senco.  Was  I'is  (Lionel's)  claim 
upon  her  a  vicarious  one,  after  all? 
Was  the  interest  she  expressed  for 
him  but  the  olTs])ring  of  the  regard 
she  felt  for  Edgar  ? 

'  It  would  be  very  kind  of  you  to 
do  it — very  kind,  indeed.'  Then  be 
held  the  door  ojieu  for  her,  and 
Blanche  sailed  away  to  the  library 
with  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand,  and 
the  comforting  thought  in  her  heart 
that  she  was  on  the  way  to  show  a 
graceful,  womanly  attention  to  a 
man  who  was  nuich  to  be  pitied 
here  where  others  were  so  full  of  the 
joy  of  loving  and  being  loved,  in 
that  ho  seemed  to  stand  outside  it 
all. 

It  was  a  speciality  of  hers  to 
sweep  al)0ut  softly,  however  fast 
and  freely  she  walked.  Her  gar- 
ments never  rustled,  nor  did  her 
eilk  dresses  go  off  in  crisp  cracks  as 
she  swiftly  luoveil  aliuiit.  Jler  step 
was  so  light  and  true,  her  progress' 
60  noiseless,  that  Edgar  Talbot  re- 
mained unconscious  of  his  solitude 
Ixjing  broken  in  upon  until  she 
gained  his  side  and  spoke. 

'  Mr.  TallHjt,  I  have  brought  you 
some  tea,  and  I  am  charged  witli  a 
sitecial  commissifm  from  the  rest  to 
take  you  back  with  me.' 

Tlun  ho  got  up  from  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  seated,  with 
his  face  knt  down  towards  the 
ground  in  intense  ab.sorbing  thought 
— got  up,  and  took  the  cup  from 
her,  nnd  then  took  both  her  wrists 
in  his  hands,  and  njade  her  face 
him,  which  she  did,  won<leringIy. 

'  You  have  come  to  nic  — will  jou 
stay  with  me?' 

'ibre?  in  this  room?  Oh,  yes, 
if  I  can  help  you  at  all.' 

'You  can't  help  me,'  he  replied, 
impatiently.  The  idea  of  any  wo- 
man's assibtanco  would  have  seemed 


against  conceit  at  the  brightest 
time ;  at  present  it  seemed  a  sug- 
gestion fraught  with  the  nio.st  con- 
ti'iuptible  folly.  Still  he  was  in  love 
with  tho  woman  who  had  made  it, 
60  he  contcufed  himself  with  say- 
ing, '  You  can't  help  nie  at  all ;'  and 
then  adding,  '  exfept  i)y  staying' 
with  me,  and  henring  what  I  have 
to  say.  I  have  bad  news  for  you — 
very  bad  nowr«.'  Then  he  released 
one  of  her  hands,  and  i)icked  up  a 
paper-knife,  which  he  balanced 
cleverly  on  his  linger,  as  an  aid  to 
eloquence,  apparently,  for  when  he 
had  got  it  into  perfect  swing,  ho  went 
on, '  I  have  bad  news  for  you.  I  am 
not  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  tale 
of  my  ruin— of  the  ruiu  of  all  con- 
nected withme-^will  sound  harshly 
in  voiir  ears?' 

•"Harshly!  Oh!  Mr.  Talbot,  hor- 
ribly, horribly !'  There  was  no 
aversion  manifested  in  the  horror 
she  expressed,  no  falling  away  from 
him.  Iler  face  grew  piale,  and  tier 
eyes  softened,  but  not  unto  tears,  as 
she  moved  back  a  step  under  the 
blow  he  dealt.  Then  she  gave  his 
hand  a  good  hearty  grip— a  sort  of 
promissory  note  of  friendship,  should 
he  ever  need  it— and  went  on— 'It 
would  sound  so  feeble  if  I  told  you 
that  I  am  sorry,  ami  the  words 
would  not  tell  you  half  that  I  am; 
women's  words,  and  ways,  and  wills 
are  so  weak  when  it  conies  to  the 
jioiiit.'  Then  she  paused,  out  of  • 
breath,  with  sympathy,  and  the  re- 
flection that  he  had  said  'all  con- 
nected with  him'  shared  his  misery; 
and  she  remembered  that  it  might 
bo  hers  to  have  to  comfort  Lionel; 
an<l  her  heart  rose  freely  to  the 
task. 

'  I'our  words  arc  not  weak ;  I 
shall  soon  know  whether  your  will 
is  equally  strong  or  not.  i\Iany  a 
man  situated  as  I  am  would  try  to 
work  on  your  tenderness  by  telling 
you  ho  was  a  l>eggar.  I  do  not  tell 
you  thi-J,  for  I  never  coidd  be  a 
beggar,  and  I  don't  like  the  figure  of 
speech  ;  lait  the  lot  I  have  to  offer  a 
woman  will  be  little  better  than  a 
be^rgar's  in  reality— will  you  share 
it?' 

In  very  truth,  versed  as  she  w^ 
in  all  the  signs  of  men's  love,  this 
came  upon  ber  as  a  surpri.sc  — asur- 


Playing  for  ITujh  Stakes. 


417 


prise  that  wounded,  shamed,  hurt 
her  in  some  way  apparently,  for  she 
bowed  her  head  under  it  in  no  co- 
quetish  fasliion. 

*  I  would  not  have  had  you  say 
such  words  for  the  world,'  she 
whispered,  presently  ;  '  forget  them 
— forget  that  I  have  heard  them. 
Oh!  iSlr.  Talbot,  you  have  made 
me  so  miserable ! — and  I  have  liked 
you  so.' 

She  spoke  as  one  who  was  bitterly 
disappointed— as  one  whohad  steeled 
herself  to  bear  ill  news,  but  not 
such  news  as  this.  Edgar  Talbot 
had  never  realized  before  that  it  is 
possible  to  put  a  woman  to  very 
painful  confusion  by  proposing  to 
her.  He  told  himself  that  his 
cousin,  Frank  Bathurst,  had  been 
in  the  field  before  him,  and  he  did, 
for  a  minute  or  two,  hate  his  host 
very  heartily. 

'  You  have  seemed  to  like  me,'  he 
said. 

'  And  I  have  liked  you,  and  I  do 
like  you  so  much — so  very,  very 
much — but  not  in  that  way.' 

'If  I  had  said  these  words  to  you 
down  at  the  Grange,  when  I  knew 
you  first  —when  I  first  loved  you — ■ 
your  answer  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent ?' 

'  Yes,  it  would,'  she  answered, 
frankly,  '  for  I  hadn't  the  feeling, 
the  liking  for  you  had  not  come 
then  to  give  me  pain.' 

*  And  I  was  a  rich  man  then.' 
'You  do  not  believe  what  you 

imply,'  she  said,  indignantly.  '  Ah! 
my  worHs  are  weak,  indeed,  for  I 
feel  that  if  I  spoke  for  ever  you 
would  not  understand  me :  you  do 
wrong  me  when  you  hint  at  your 
change  of  fortune  influencing  my 
feelings  about  you — you  do,  but  you 
will  never  believe  it.' 

She  spoke  seriously,  standing  be- 
fore him  with  her  fingers  interlaced 
and  her  hands  held  down  low  before 
her.  She  had  been  humiliated  at 
first  by  the  feeling  of  self-reproach 
which  assailed  her  for  not  having 
seen  and  stopped  this  before  the 
words  were  spoken.  But  now  she 
asked  herself  why  should  she  suffer 
delicate  scruples  on  behalf  of  a  man 
who  could  misjudge  her  so  meanly 
as  Edgar  Talbot  was  doing?  His 
brother  would  not  have  done  so; 

VOL.  XI. — KG.  LXV. 


and  at  the  thought  of  his  brother 
she  softened  towards  him  again,  and 
looked  up  to  see  if  she  might  obey 
the  womanly  instinct  to  comfort  him 
without  being  misunderstood. 

It  is  a  fact  that  a  woman  cannot 
for  long  think  hardly  of  a  man  who 
either  tells  or  shows  her  that  he 
loves  her,  however  lowly  she  may 
rate  his  regard.  '  Affection  never  is 
wasted,'  for  if  it  enrich  not  the  giver, 
it  decidedly  elevates  the  recipient  in 
her  own  estimation,  which  is  a  read- 
ing of  his  verse  never  intended  by 
Longfellow.  In  this  case,  though 
Blanche  Lyon  was  honestly  sorry 
'that  it  should  be  so,'  her  sorrow 
was  qualified  by  a  certain  pleasur- 
able feeling  of  increased  appreci- 
ation for  the  man  who  caused  it.  A 
woman  is  always  sure  to  discover  a 
few  more  commendable  or  admirable 
touches  in  the  character  of  a  man 
who  avows  that  he  loves  her.  So 
now  Blanche  remembered  all  that 
she  knew  of  Mr.  Talbot's  best,  and 
looked  up  and  longed  to  comfort 
him. 

He  was  standing,  still  carefully 
balancing  the  paper-cutter  on  his 
finger,  still  resolutely  making  it 
keep  from  falling  a  hair's  breadth 
too  much  on  either  side.  His  pre- 
sent occupation  contrasted  forcibly 
with  the  experiences  he  had  but 
lately  gone  through — this  was  so 
little,  and  they  were  so  large.  Yet 
she  knew  that  he  was  not  frivolous. 
It  must  be  that  what  he  willed  to 
do  te  would  do.  And  he  had  willed 
to  love  and  marry  her. 

A  sudden,  irrepressible,  intense 
belief  in  the  magnitude  of  a  man's 
mind  and  the  strength  of  a  man's 
will  swept  aci'oss  her  soul,  and  her 
desire  to  comfort  him  was  merged 
in  a  desire  that  he  would  not  oppose 
or  quell  her  in  any  way,  or,  as  she 
worded  it  to  herself,  that '  he  should 
let  tier  alone.'  She  felt  very  ner- 
vous before  this  man,  who  had  of- 
fered her  marriage  and  accused  her 
of  mercenary  motives.  If  he  held 
to  his  course,  and  assumed  her  past 
interest  in  him  to  have  been  a  sen- 
timent which  would  have  ripened 
into  love  had  his  fortune  not 
changed,  where  should  she  be  with 
Lionel  when  he  came  to  hear  of  it  ? 
She  would  be  regarded  as  a  common- 


418 


Playing  for  Ilvjh  Slil>'i. 


])I(ioc,  flirfinp,  false,  vain,  iiittrostod 
cix-aturc  l>y  LioiKl— ns  one  who  liail 
nn^lfd  in  ivery  striaiu  tor  any  kind 
of  ti^h.  Tlu!  (Inad  of  Uing  so  inado 
luT  luif-erahlo  and  brave  at  the  saiuo 
time,  and  she  pikjIco  earnestly  and 
well. 

'  ^fr.  TaUx)t,  will  yoii  Ix)  very 
merciful  in  your  strength?  will  yon 
forget  what  you  have  said,  and  lut  nio 
forptt  it  too,  and  Ix.-  a  friend  to  me?' 
'  That  istlie  trasliy  cant  of  school- 
girls and  virtuous  heroines  in 
novels,'  ho  interrupted,  inijiatienfly. 
An<l  she  felt  tluit  if  she  would  have 
her  apj>eal  heard  sbe  must  make  it 
very  short. 

'  Well,  then,  will  yon  keep  this 
secret,  Ixjcause,  if  it  were  known,  it 
would  prevent  the  man  1  love  loving 
me  ?' 
'  By  Jove!  you're  candid.' 
'  I'm  more  than  candid,  I'm  au- 
dacious ;  and  1  know  it.     But  I  ask 
it  of  you  ;  will  you  keej)  my  secret  ?' 
'  Most  men  would  call  it  theirs.' 
'  Most  men  would  he  wrong,  lh(n. 
It's  mine,  inasmuch  as  the  l)etrayal 
of  it  would  harm  me  more  than  it 
would  hurt  you  ;  some  of  my  friends 
Would  find  it  impossible  to  l>el;cvo 
that  I  had  not  been  to   blame  for 
more  than  blindness  in  the  matter.' 
'  You  are  great  at   making  mis- 
takes,' ho  said,  quietly;  'now  you 
are  attributing  all  manner  of  fine 
feeling,  which  he  does  not  possess, 
to  the  man  you  fancy  you  love.     I 
know  him  l)etter.' 

'  You  ought  to  know  him  better, 
but  you  know  nothing  of  him  if  you 
can  say  that.' 

'  He  will  always  seek  what  other 
men  seek,  and  strive  to  win  what 
other  men  want,'  Kdgar  Talbot 
went  on,  disreganling  her;  'his 
love  is  not  worth  the  name;  it  will 
always  How  in  the  courses  other 
men  open  up  to  his  vision ;  he's 
acting  an  unworthy  part  now  to- 
wards you   and    towanls '     Ho 

paused,  and  I'.'anclie  cried — 
'  Towards  whom  ?' 
'  Towards  another  woman.  I  will 
not  mention  her  name  ;  you  will 
know  it  in  time.  He's  weak,  vain, 
and  impressionable— and  you  preter 
him  to  me?' 

'  I  have  staywl  hero  too  long,'  she 
Bald,   turning  to  go;  and  then  ho 


followed  her,  and  stood  so  tlmt  he 
barred  her  egress  from  the  door. 

'I  have  more  to  say.  Miss  Lyon, 
and  you  must  hear  it.' 

She  bowed  her  head  acquiescently, 
and  then  stood,  resting  lur  chin  in 
her  lelt  hand,  and  holding  the  sup- 
porting elbow  in  her  right  hand,  in 
that  attitude  of  mingled  resignation 
and  impatience  which  is  familiar  to 
Women. 

'  You  shall  hear  it,  and  you  shall 
not  forget  it.  You  will  follow  your 
own  path  now  ;  nuno  .seems  t(X) 
dreary  for  you  to  treiul.  Y'ou  will 
marry;  you  will  be  happy  for  a 
time;  then  ho  will  neglect  you,  and 
you  will  remember  my  love,  and — 
turn  to  it.' 

'  Heaven  forgive  you  these  words!' 
She  shuddered,  and  Iooke<l  as  though 
she  could  not  be  kind,  as  she  prayed 
heaven  might  be. 

'  Whether  or  not,  they  are  spoken, 
and  you  will  think  of  them  by-and- 
by;  you  will  realize  then  that  there 
is  a  dilTerence  between  the  man  who 
feigns  a  passion  for  everj'  woman 
and  the  man  who  ft  els  it  for  one; 
and  you  will  feel  then  that  you  havo 
not  t)een  guiltless  in  this  matter.' 

He  s)«)ke  o-s  if  he  were  very  umch 
in  earnest.  She  was  woman  enough 
to  feel  sorry  for  the  sorrow  that 
would  be  worded ;  she  was  also 
woman  enough  to  feel  sorry  for  her- 
self '  Lo\l;  turned  to  gall'  in  the 
l)Osom  of  Lionel  Talbot's  brother 
might  prove  a  bitter  element  in  her 
lite. 

'  At  kast  believe  that  I  have  not 
been  guilty  in  design,'  she  pleaded  ; 
'it  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  pos- 
.sible  that  you  could  bethinking  ot 
me  in  the  way  you  havo  duno  mo 
the  honour  to  think  of  me.' 
He  sho(»k  his  head  in  disbelief 
'  What  reason  had  you  for  think- 
ing me  so  blind  or  so  cold  as  not  to 
see  your  beauty  and  be  touclu'd  by 
your  sym]iatiiy  ?  You  have  seemed 
to  like  me;  yon  have  shown  so 
marked  a  i)reference  for  my  society, 
and  so  unniistak  d)le  an  interest  in 
my  prospects,  that  I  am  justi;ied  to 
iii}.self  in  having  expected  a  diffiTcnt 
answer  from  you.  I  had  discovered 
n(jthing  in  your  character  or  manner 
to  lead  me  to  suppo.se  you  a  weak, 
vain,  or  false  woman ' 


Playing  for  Hujli  Stu7:e9. 


419 


'And  you  are  not  jiis'ifiod  in 
judging  me  to  be  either  of  these 
things  now.' 

'  I  will  not  judge  you— at  least  I 
will  not  word  my  judgment  of  you, 
but  I  will  ask  you  to  judge  yourself 
when  I  have  put  your  conduct 
before  you  plainly.' 

'  Mr.  Talbot— not  even  the  honour 
you  have  done  me  entitles  you  to 
take  up  the  position  of  my  accuser 
in  this  way:  conscience  free  as  I 
am,  I  am  still  bitterly  sorry  that  I 
should  have  been  the  means  of 
leading  you  to  make  a  mistake : 
that  IS  all  1  can  say — 1  am  bitterly 
sorry.' 

'  Not  SO  bitterly  sorry  as  I  am, 
not  that  1  should  nave  "  made  a 
mistake,"  as  that  it  should  "  be  a 
mistake ;"  you  are  the  tirst  woman 
on  whom  I  have  set  my  heart — you 
will  be  the  last,  yet  you  can  calmly 
tell  me  "  1  have  made  a  mistake, 
and  that  yovi  are  conscience  free." 
Miss  Lj'on,  men  do  not  "  make  mis- 
takes "  nor  are  women  "  conscience 
free,"  in  such  oases  ;  we  call  acts  cri- 
minal that  do  not  carry  such  a  train 
of  evil  consequences  with  them  as 
this  ot  yours.' 

He  looked  so  quelled,  so  misera- 
ble, so  hopeless,  and  reckless  as  he 
said  this,  that  she  longed  to  soothe 
him  back  to  better  feeling,  both  for 
his  own  sake  and  another's.  But 
she  dared  not  do  it.  The  man  had 
charged  her  plainly  with  having 
before  this  shown  signs  of  love  for 
him  which  she  had  not  felt,  and  she 
could  not  tell  him  that  the  love  had 
been  not  tor  him  but  for  his  brother. 
She  must  be  content  to  be  reviled 
and  rebuked,  maligned,  and  mis- 
understood for  a  time.  So  she  ac- 
cepted his  last  harsh  words  in 
silence,  and  when  he  ceased  speak- 
ing she  tried  to  pass  by  him  quietly 
once  more. 

'  Don't  go  yet,'  he  entreated  in 
softer  tones  than  he  had  used  here- 
tofore ;  '  from  this  night  mine  will 
be  a  black,  barren  road ;  bear  with 
me  patiently  now.' 

The  altered  t  ne  broke  down  her 
hardly-sustained  resolution.  She 
turned  to  him  with  all  a  woman's 
tender  pitifulness  in  her  blushing 
face  and  tear-filled  eyes. 

'  Mr.  Talbot,  you  will  break  my 


heart  unless  you  tell  me  you  forgive 
mc  for  having  added  to  your  trou- 
bles. I  shall  never  be  happy  again 
if  jou  do  not  promise  me  to  go  out 
to  meet  your  altered  fortune  brightly 
and  bravely  as  a  man  should  ?' 

'  Such  going  out  is  easy  in  theory.' 

'  And  in  practice  too !  ah !  you 
smile;  but  I  am  not  speaking  as  a 
fool  entirely  without  experience.' 

'  You  sjxak  as  a  woman.' 

'  I  grant  that — as  a  woman  should 
speak  who  has  fought  a  long  mono- 
tonous fight  without  hope  of  glory, 
and  who  feels  that  she  can  fight  it 
over  again  on  the  same,  or  even 
harder  termS,  without  repining  or 
regret.' 

'  Fight  it  with  me ;  the  terms 
will  be  harder,  but  you  have  the 
heart  to  fulfil  them  gallantly.' 

'  It  cannot  be  now.  I  wish  it 
could.  I  think  it  would  if  I  had 
known  you  as  I  know  you  no\^ 
before  I  had  got  to  love  some  one 
else  better  than  my  life.  "  Hard 
terms!"  I'd  fulfil  the  hardest  wil- 
lingly with  the  man  I  loved  who 
had  the  courage  to  say  the  hard 
truths  to  me  that  you  have  said.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  for  consola- 
tion ?  because  if  you  do,  I  must  tell 
you  that  it  falls  short  of  your  in- 
tention.' 

'  I  scarcely  know  what  I  intend 
it  for— yes  I  do;  I  intend  you  to 
understand  through  it  that  I  un- 
derstand and  sympathise,  and,  to 
a  certain  degree,  regard  you  very 
warmly — hard  as  you  have  been  on 
me— cuttingly  as  you  have  tried  to 
make  me  feel  that  I  have  been  weak, 
and  vain,  and  false.'  Then  she 
paused,  came  down  from  her  im- 
passioned height,  and  added,  '  What 
will  they  think  of  us  in  the  draw- 
ing-room'?' 

'  They  will  "  think  " — naturally 
enough — that  the  one  who  came  to 
seek  stayed  to  comfort  me;  they 
will  "  know  "  nothing  more,  unless 
you  tell  them.' 

'  You  do  think  very  poorly  of  me.' 

'  No ;  but  I  think  it  more  than 
possible  that  in  some  unguarded 
moment  you  may  utter  the  truth 
concerning  me;  not  in  the  spirit 
of  a  vaunt ;  you  will  not  boast,  but 
the  day  will  come,  surely,  when  you 
"Will  feel  proud  of  having  gained  my 

2    E   2 


430 


Placing  for  Bl<jk  Siake$. 


love,  ind  thea  yoa  will  tell  that 
joa  rejecttxi  it.' 

*  Ne>er,'  she  exclaimed,  earnestly ; 
•  it  is  much  to  l>e  proud  of.  I  know 
that ;  but  my  pruie  in  it  makes  me 
prouil  for  you;'  then  the  present 
diff"'"'*"-  'i.>.t  her  again  and  she 
ask  I  DOt  better  go  back 

to  1 

'  Ami  gratify  any  cnriopity  they 
may  bo  fttliiit:  by  looking  agitated  ; 
no,  go  up  to  your  own  room  if  you 
wish  to  be  spareil  question  and 
remark.'  Then  be  stood  slightly 
on  one  side,  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  free  to  pass  him,  and  then  the 
will  to  do  so  iaimet-liaftly  left  her, 
and  she  '■  —  ■  •  1.  This  was  a 
crisis  iL  ■.  :  she  ftit  sure  of 

that:  tL.._:  :  not  goon  after 

it  as  they  had  gone  on  before  it; 
and  as  she  rememliered  only  what 
had  been  plea-sant  in  the  lately  past 
period,  she  sighed  and  regretteil, 
and  wondered  what  would  be  al- 
tered. 

'  May  I  feel  sure  that  we  part  in 
kindness?"  she  askei. 

'  If  I  told  jou,  "  Yes,"  the  telling 
would  gi«"e  your  mind,  or  con- 
8cic r  - '  ^.rt,  or  whatever  chan  -es 
to  on   my    account,   no 

easc  •- ..-.. ..  -.1  came  to  refiect  on  it ; 
kindness  d<Des  not  overflow  the 
heart  of  a  man  when  he  finds  him- 
self baulked  at  every  turn;  it  is 
bein::  ^iv-n  a  stone  when  one  has 
■fik  .\d  to  be  offered  kinl- 

i»e>-  •:'  the  love  I  wanted — 

the  iuvt  1  iooketl  for  from  you.' 

When  he  said  that  in  just  the 
fa:  n   which   be  had  pre- 

vi  'at  sbe  "  had  seemei 

to  ll-v-   :.ini.      -^      '   -   -    -     1    -  -    :    -    ---].^ 

but  went  aw  i, 

to  her  o^"  "■  y 

became  g 

lo- 

ag .  .    . -^       - 

Th-  :  lilt;  d»;l«tt;  L>tt\Vt*n 
hop..         :    '  "T  ^a«,   thit   pity  for 

3Ir.  Ti.  '.red   in 

anxiety  :   and 

Xhea  sr  "-h 

consider  a- 
braaee 
of  the   : 

hooae,  was  a  ruined  man! 


CHAPTER  XTI, 

BROTHEKLY   Ct^CNSEL. 

They  bad  all  bfgun  to  speculate 
silently  in  their  own  minds  as  to 
what  could  be  detaiuing  Blanche 
long  before  Mr.  Talbot  walked  into 
their  midst,  which  he  did  very  soon 
after  Miss  Lyon  left  him. 

'  Where  is  Miss  Lyon  ?  I  hoped 
she  would  be  here  to  give  us  some 
music,"  he  faid  as  he  came  near  to 
the  table  round  which  they  were 
gathereel.  And  when  Beatrix  bad 
answered, '  Why.tdgarl  we  thought 
stie  went  to  the  hf^rary  to  you,' 
the  difficulty  which  Miss  Lyon  had 
forese-en  as  to  what  '  would  be 
thought  of  her  in  the  drawing- 
room  ■  was  got  over  tit  all  outwani 
seeming,  for  no  further  remark  was 
made.  Later  in  the  evening  she 
came  hack  to  them,  and  then"  Mrs. 
Lyon  insisted  on  their  all  being 
struck  with  the  fact  of  Blanche 
looking  aa  though  she  ba^l  a  head- 
ache, and  Mr.  Talbot  quoted  Schil- 
ler to  himself  to  the  effect  that 
'  against  stupidity  even  the  gods 
fight  in  battle.' 

Mr.  Talbot  had  gone  through  a 
hard  ta.-ik  this  night.  He  had 
pk'ftded  earnestly— ardently  for  him 
— for  the  love  of  a  woman  in  the 
face  of  fortune  and  her  avowed  pre- 
ference for  fomeboily  else.  The 
ta.sk  had  been  very  hard  to  .him, 
but  as  he  hail  entered  upon  it  after 
much  deliberation,  so  now  he  had 
no  self-repp lachful  thoughts  about 
the  manter  in  which  he  had  per- 
formed it.  Whatever  there  was  of 
mistake  or  mortification  in  the  mat- 
ter, ought  to  be  and  was  with  her. 
He  had  not  been  lo«^l  away  by  his 
i:>wn  feelings  more  than  by  her  man- 
ner. 'She  had  seamed  to  like  him,' 
^■1  in  such  Ft-emingthere  was  shame 
'  r,  not  for  him,  since  it  had 
1  in  thi.o.  On  the  whole,  deeply 
as  he  loved  her,  and  desperatelj  as 
he  desireii  to  win  her  even  yet  for 
his  wife,  there  was  more  justice 
than  mercy  in  his  judgment  of  her. 
He  used  no  shallow  euphemisms 
in  namine  what  he  conceived  to 
'  '    r  conduct  to  him.«elf. 

guilty  of  the  des- 
I  :  ..  -^li,,--  .1  '  tender  artifice,  and 
tialteriLg  luie,  and  feigned  interest,' 


Playing  for  High  Staler*. 


421 


eo  he  thought,  and  sLe  l,a/l  ased 
these  despicable  meang  for  the  more 
despicable  end  of  lunng  him  into  a 
false  position.  As  she  tat  before 
him  trving  to  l)e  as  she  bad  be^n 
hitherto  to  him  and  to  them  all,  and 
he  thonght  these  tbings,  he  felt 
pitiless  towaris  her,  and  towards 
that  ki  modem  code  which  sufters 
a  woman  to  pureae  such  a  course, 
and  still  considers  her  pure. 

It  was  a  heavy  secret  for  her  to 
be  weighted  with,  ttiis  knowledge 
which  he  had  imparted  to  her  that 
conmierciallr  his  carter  had  ctane 
to  a  close.  It  made  her  feel  most 
pitifully  tender  towards  the  rest,  and 
specially  pitiful  tosrards  him,  the 
Itickless  head  of  the  house  who  had 
wrought  its  ruin.  Her  heart  ached 
as  stie  glanced  furtively  at  him,  and 
guessed  what  some  of  his  hopes  had 
beoi,  and  fathomed  a  good  deal  oi 
the  hopelessness  that  was  his  pac- 
tion  now.  But  she  dared  make  no 
sign  of  such  tenderness  and  pity,  for 
she  knew  that  did  she  do  so,  the 
others  would  fall  to  wondering  about 
the  reason  why  she  came  to  be  better 
informed  than  they  were,  and  he 
woTild  misconstrue  her  again.  So 
she  sat  and  glanced  furtively  at  him 
now  and  again,  and  wonderwi  when 
he  would  be  frank  with  the  rest,  and 
she  would  be  free  to  speak  s.3me  of 
the  sympathy  she  felL 

Tt^  followiog  day,  long  before  he 
intended,  being  le>l  into  it,  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject  was  forced 
upon  Edgar  Taltot  by  drcnm- 
stances.  Contrary  to  his  tisual  cus- 
tom, he  went  away  to  the  stable 
with  the  other  two  yoimg  men  im- 
mediately after  breakfast,  instead  of, 
as  usuaL  shutting  himself  in  the 
Library,  when  Mr.  Bathurst  oeeupi&i 
himself,  and  strove  to  interest  his 
guests,  by  enlarging  cm,  and  show- 
ing off,  the  beauties  and  excellen- 
cies of  three  new  riding  horses.  Soon. 
Mr.  Bathurst  was  away  cm  cne 
which  was  reputed  to  lie  a  faxomn 
fencer,  along  a  sL'p  of  ttirf  whereon 
a  few  hurdle  were  put  up  for  prac- 
tice ;  and  the  two  brothers,  as  ther 
saunt^^l  sSiex  him  nominally  to 
watch  his  progress,  suddenly  foand 
thanselves  on  the  to|He  whidi  had  a 
&tal  faecioation  isx  than  both. 

'  That  maie  is  too  ^igfat  for  Ba- 


thiirst,'  'EVii*T  observecl,  a.?  -^he 
visibly  fia;:^'«i  on  a  fc-j>ace  of  mar^'iy 
turf,  and  Lionel  repl^d — 

'  He  has  an  idea  of  giving  her  to 
Miss  Lvon.' 

'Has  he  that?  Then  Triiyg 
chance  is,  over,  for  Jliss  Lyon  will 
accept  the  mare  first,  and  then  the 
man.  She  has  played  with  a  moet 
shameful  cleverness ;  tujtQ  last  night 
she  did  not  know  which  of  as  stood 
to  win :  then  1  frankly  pot  mysdf 
before  her  as  a  rumed  man,  and  she 
enacted  surprLse  and  confusion,  and 
made  the  usual  plea  of  ndsconcep- 
tkn  of  my  intentkns.'  Ihea  he 
grew  more  bitter  under  the  stii^  of 
being  so  soon  supexseded,  as  he 
imagined,  by  a  man  whom  he  re- 
garded as  Boraething  infinitely  lighter 
and  le^  worthy  than  himself,  and 
added,  'Blanche  Lyon  is  a  clever 
woman,  bat  her  tactics  are  tzans- 
■pareait  to  me  and  die  win  repent 
theuL' 

'  God  bless  and  prosper  her,  what- 
ever they  are,'  Lionel  iiiterpa^, 
heartiiy.  '  But  you,  E-igar !  What 
do  you  mean  by  placing  yourself 
before  Miss  Lvon  as  a  romed  nun  T 

'  That  I  dii  it— that  I  am  <me;' 
and  thai  lionel  uttered  an  inter- 
jection, and  thai  the  whc^  stGcy,  at 
least  as  mneh  of  it  as  conld  be  t<M, 
and  was  neeessary  to  be  known,  was 
narrate'!  by  Mr.  Talbot 

The  e'der  broths  did  not  pot 
himself  in  the  positioD  of  one  who 
has  erred,  and  repented  befixe 
Lionel,  '  I  did  what  I  thought  was 
best  for  the  &mily,  and  my  juds- 
ment  has  been  proved  faulty.'  'Hb 
saidwhai  he  Ind  finished,  'If  I  suc- 
ceeded, yen  wnaM  all  have  baie- 
fitei  as  largely  as  n^aelf  hr  my 
success ;  as  1  hare  failed,  I  shall  he 
the  greatest  snffiier.  Iwishloonld 
be  the  only  one.' 

'  Don't  feel  that  I  am  a  eaSexia  in 
the  afiair  at  aD,'  lianel  said,  i^ing 
tkat  he  vas  eaDed  upon  to  say 
Bometfaing.  'Sodh  |da&s  as  I  have 
made  wQl  cazry  ^lansdf^es  out 
without  1^  or  hindranee  from  this 
bosinees, save  eo  £u  as  Trixy  isocRt- 
oefned.' 

'Tiixy  will  still  be  my  charge,' 
Edgar  replied  firmly,  cni  he  «aa 
Tay  much  the  bead  of  the  house  stiB 
as  he  spo^    'Ttttv  will  be  mj 


422 


PlnyiiKj  for  Iliijh  Stalei. 


ohnrpc.  I  shall  l)Ogin  at  the  f(X)t  of 
the  ladder,  and  elie  imist  Ih) 
content  to  take  licr  staiul  there  with 
nic.  I  coulii  have  wi.^lud  tliut  she 
had  married  JJathurst.  As  it  is.  the 
liest  1  can  do  tor  her  I  will  do  ;  Miss 
Ljon  has  j)ut  it  out  oi  the  (juesti  »n 
that  any  wife  of  mine  can  interfere 
with  my  sister.'  When  he  sjiid  that 
he  fmiltd  with  a  sort  of  cruel 
triumiih  over  himself,  and  Lionel 
knew  that  his  brother  was  sorely 
wounded  hy  this  woman  whom  they 
both  loved. 

'  You  think  Miss  Lyon  has  given 
you  reason  to  feel  wronged  by  her 
decision  ?"  he'asked. 

'  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it — not  a 
doubt  of  it.  1  am  not  a  man  to 
falsely  constnic  every  little  feminine 
artitice  into  a  special  flatterv  for  my- 
self;  she  meant  me  to  believe  what 
1  did  believe' 

'  She  has  a  very  gra^-ious  manner/ 
Lionel  sai  I ;  and  at  that  jientlo  pro- 
test against  further  censure  (tf  either 
Miss  Lyon's  motives  or  manner, 
Edgar  Talt>ot  gi"cw  irritable. 

'  I  tell  you,'  he  said,  '  that  she 
meant  me  to  l)elieve  what  I  did  l)e- 
lieve— that  she  would  marry  me  if 
I  asked  her  ;  she  spurns  the  notion 
of  king  considered  mercenary  :  but 
now-  after  set  ming  to  like  me  as  no 
other  woman  lias  sutfercd  herself  to 
seem  within  my  exix)rience —after 
this  she  has  refused  me,  j^leading 
her  love  for  a  richer  man  as  a  rea- 
son why  she  cannot  marry  me. 
"Gracious!"  Such  graciousuess  is 
devil-born.' 

'  She  did  give  you  that  reason?' 

'She  did -gave  it  out  with  what 
6"ii'  heiS'jlf  riizhtly  called  more 
audacity  Tmiu  candour.' 

When  his  brother  said  that,  Lionel 
TallKjt  once  more  detenninc-d  that 
Algeria  should  Ix)  his  sketching- 
ground  during  the  ensuing  autumn. 
For  himself,  it  was  r.ot  his  habit  to 
consider  that  anything  was  owed  to 
him  on  account  of  that  '  graciousne.ss 
of  Blanche's.  But  for  lii-;  brother! 
lie  Wiis  fain  to  acknowledge  that  if 
Edgar  nf)thing  cxtenuatet,  nor  set 
down  aught  in  malice,  he  ha<l  Ken 
wronged  by  this  woman,  whom 
Lionel  could  still  only  jiray  might 
know  many  blcssiugH  and  much 
prosperity. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A  DAY-DUEAM. 

'  Sooner  or  later  they  must  know 
it  nil,  so  the  sooner  we  come  to  an 
understanding  with  the  women 
aliout  all  this  the  better,'  Edgar 
TallKit  said  to  his  brother  when  they 
found  themselves  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  slip,  with  ^Ir.  15athin-st  so  far 
in  advance  of  them  as  to  justify 
them  iu  no  longer  feigning  an  in- 
terest in  his  ])errormances  with  the 
bay  mare  he  designed  fur  his  cousin. 
Sir.  Talbot,  as  it  will  be  seen,  did 
in  no  way  seek  to  involve  any  other 
than  himself  in  the  tangle  of 
wrecked  fortune  and  strained  re- 
Pjionsibility  in  which  he  was  caught. 
Still  he  did  tind  it  a  slight  *  some- 
thing to  lean  upon,'  that  knowie  Igc 
he  had  that  in  the  coming  exi)]ana- 
tion  Lionel  would  be  near  to  aid 
him  verbally,  at  any  rate. 

'  Sooner  or  later  they  must  know 
it  all,  therefore  the  sooner  the  better,' 
Lionel  answered,  and  in  that  answer 
there  was  a  touch  more  of  poetical 
feeling  than  of  sound  common  sense. 
For  a  time — say  only  for  a  few  da,\s 
— matters  might  with  safety  have 
sttxxl  where  they  were.  No  one 
could  be  bcnefite*!  by  any  im- 
mejiate  and  ab.solute  declaration  of 
the  necessity  for  a  coin])lete  change, 
and  it  was  well  within  the  lM)unds 
of  possibility  that  some  might  l)e 
worsted  by  it.  '  Trixy  will  l>e  my 
charge  still — that,  of  course;  but 
she  must  rough  it.  When  she  came 
to  me  I  ho]>cd  to  give  her  a  good 
establishment  until  she  gained  one 
for  herself.  Now  all  that  is  at  an 
end;  still'she  is  my  charge,  and  I 
shall  fultil  it.' 

'You  will  let  me  help  you?'  the 
younger  brother  a'^ked. 

'  No.  As  things  have  turned  out, 
I  can  take  no  man's  help  with  re- 
gard to  Trixy.  I,  who  have  done 
lier  the  injury  through  my  over 
zeal,  must  1*  the  one  Ui  make  her 
amends;  liesides,  she  would  still  l>o 
within  sound  and  si^ht  of  that  fel- 
low, if  she  cast  in  her  lot  with  you, 
and  she,  like  me,  will  Ik)  lietteraway 
from  them  alto;^'ether.' 

Then  the  brothers  s[»oke  of  Trixy's 
too  evident  love  lor  the  man  who 


Playing  for  E'ujh  Slakes. 


423 


loved  Blanche  Lyon  belter  llian 
their  sister — spoke  of  it  delicately 
and  with  reserve,  and  in  a  way  that 
proved  to  each  that  the  other  felt  the 
common  family  honour  to  be  his  very 
tender  care,  and  finally  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  since  nothing  better 
could  be  devised,  it  would  be  well 
to  leave  Haldon  without  delay. 

But  not  to  go  back  to  London. 
The  man  who  had  lived  in  luxury 
there  shrank  from  taking  his  f-ister 
back  to  some  draughty  suburb  to 
live  in  cheap  obscurity.  'If  it 
were  not  for  this  about  Blanche,  I 
could  desire  nothing  safer  and  better 
for  Trixy  than  to  live  on  with  Mrs. 
Lyon;  but  that  will  hardly  do  now 
— Trixy  could  not  stand  it.' 

'  Neither  of  the  girls  could  stand 
it  if  Miss  Lyon  marries  Bathurst/ 
Lionel  suggested.  '  Miss  Lj'on  is  a 
quicksighted  woman,  and  a  tender- 
hearted woman ;  she  would  never 
agree  to  testing  poor  Trixy  cruelly  ; 
but  we  are,  after  all,  arguing  on  in- 
sufficient grounds  ;  we  do  not  know 
that  Blanche  cares  for  Frank ;  that 
gracious  manner  of  hers  is  shown  to 
us  all  alike.' 

'  Slie  made  no  secret  of  caring  for 
him,'  Edgar  replied,  emphatically; 
'  she  spoke  as  plainly  as  a  woman 
can  speak ;  far  more  plainly  than  a 
woman  ought  to  speak.'  Then  he 
bent  his  head  down  and  brooded 
over  the  words  she  had  uttered,  and 
was  as  sick  at  heart  in  his  angry 
outspoken  love  and  wrath,  as  was 
Lionel,  whose  hojies  had  been  raised 
with  far  more  cause.  There  was  no 
unselfish  consolation  to  Mr.  Talbot 
in  the  thought  that  the  woman  he 
loved  was  escaping  a  black,  barren- 
looking  fate  l)y  refusing  to  marry 
him.  He  had  a  theory  that  snch 
love  as  was  his  to  give  was  all-sutfi- 
cient  to  brighten  the  darkest  road 
to  any  woman.  Therefore  now  he 
girded  against  Blanche  for  leaving 
liim  to  travel  it  alone. 

'  She  made  no  secret  of  caring  for 
him — she  spoke  more  plainly  than 
a  woman  ought  to  speak.'  Lionel 
listened  to  these  words  with  a  deep 
conviction  that  they  were  ringing 
the  knell  of  happiness  for  him. 
Last  night  that  sweet  graciousness 
of  hers  made  his  future  seem  so 
bright,  his  work  so  noble,  his  aim 


Fo  lofty,  his  prospects  so  many ! 
Now  he  knew  that  it  had  been 
shown  to  him  because  ho  was  Frank 
Bathurst's  friend.  IMany  women 
bciiiig  imbued  with  the  amiable, 
though  weak  notion,  that  it  recom- 
mends them  to  Damon  to  be  agree- 
able to  Pythias. 

'  Have  you  tliought  of  letting 
Trixy  go  to  Marian  tor  a  time';'' 
Lionel  asked. 

'  Not  while  I'm  alive  and  in  au- 
thority ;  moreover,  Marian  will  not 
be  too  likely  to  stretch  out  a  help- 
ing hand  just  now,  for  this  last 
business  has  dipped  Sutton  consider- 
al)ly,  and  she  will  be  sure  to  attri- 
bute his  reverses  to  me ;  no !  until 
her  daughter's  altered  prospects 
causes  Mrs.  Lyon  to  take  a  gorgeous 
tone  I  shall  take  it  for  granted  that 
she  remains  Trixy's  chaperone.  I 
shall  get  into  harness  at  once  myself, 
and  then  I  shall  know  whatarrango- 
meuts  I  can  make  for  them.' 

Tlieu  Lionel  urged  once  more  that 
they  should  stand  or  fall  together, 
bringing  forward,  in  support  of  his 
claim  to  help,  that  the  mistress  he 
served  rewarded  her  honest  votaries 
io  a  right  royal  way ;  and  still  the 
head  of  the  house  refused  the  cadet's 
claim,  and  declared  his  intention 
manfully  of  sufficing  to  himself  and 
his  sister. 

But  although  Mr.  Talbot  would 
share  this  actual  practical  responsi- 
bility with  no  man,  so  long  as  it  could 
be  considered  his  property,  he  still 
did  shrink  from  the  more  puerile 
duty  of  telling  his  sister  that  he  had 
been  shortsighted  or  luckless  rather. 
To  Blanche  Lyon  he  had  told  it  out 
boldly— not  being  altogether  un- 
conscious that  there  was  something 
inspiring  and  touching  in  the  man- 
ner of  his  telling  it.  Blanche  Lyon 
was  very  much  endowed  with  the 
love  of  all  that  is  chivalric  and 
daring,  and  there  was  something 
very  daring  in  Mr.  Talbot's  tale  and 
the  tone  in  which  he  had  told  it. 
As  she  had  said  to  him,  if  she  had 
not  already  loved  another  man 
better  she  could  have  found  it  in  her 
heart  to  love  him  very  well  indeed. 
She  was  sympathetic  to  that  power 
he  possessed  of  bearing  the  worst, 
and  bearing  it  buoyantly  not  sto- 
lidly, and  he  knew  that  she  .was 


424 


Platjing  for  Fliijli  Stances. 


tliiis  Kympatlietio,  and  bo  he  was 
al)lo  to  si)cak  out  to  her  as  bccaiuo 
a  man. 

But  with  Trixy  ho  fdt  very  dif- 
ft-rently.  Trdtli  to  tell,  \w  knew 
httlo  more  of  his  sister  thiin  that 
she  had  lovely  violet  eyes,  and  a 
largo  luxurious  figure,  and  a  lady- 
like K-ariug  that  entitled  him  to 
ho|^  that  slic  would  marry  very 
well.  He  was  proud  of  her,  to  a 
certain  dt-preo  he  was  fond  of  lur, 
but  he  was  not  at  all  aeqnainted 
with  the  tone  of  her  ehauut'r  or 
the  turn  of  her  mind,  blie  had  l)een 
a  delightful  sisti-r  to  him  while  ho 
liad  l>een  well  olY,  and  hoping  to  ho 
still  l>etter  oft".  But  whether  or  not 
she  had  it  in  her  to  hear  of  such  a 
reverse  as  he  had  to  tell  her  of 
without  l(X)king  crushed  and  re- 
proiichful  he  did  not  know. 

So  it  was  lK>rno  in  upon  hira, 
partly  by  rea.'^on  of  his  seltisliness, 
and  partly  out  of  that  natural  dis- 
like to  the  si^iht  of  tears  wliiL-h  most 
men  have,  that  it  would  be  well 
for  him  to  so  far  avail  himself  of 
that  otTer  of  fraternal  service  which 
Lionel  had  made,  as  to  make  the 
latter  the  me.s.-^enger  of  evil  to  Trixy. 
'  As  you  were  haying,  the  sooner 
they  all  know  it  now  the  l)etter/  he 
remarked.  '  I  don't  mind  jotir 
telling  Trixy  this  morning ;  we  shall 
not  go  ttack  to  Victoria  Street ;  if 
she  has  a  preference  for  any  par- 
ticular part  of  the  country  it  will  1)0 
OS  well  that  I  shuuld  know  it  bufoito 
we  leave  here,  anil  then  1  may  ma- 
nage it  for  her.' 

'  The  telling  will  come  better 
from  you,  I  fancy,'  Lionel  rei)lied, 
in  all  eimplicify,  not  l)ecause  ho 
shirked  tho  unpleasant  <luty,  but 
lx;cau.so  he  really  thr)Uglit  that  it 
would  l»c  ix-'tler  for  Ldgarto  receive 
tho  wdace  of  Trixy 's  sorrow  and 
sympathy  with  him  at  first  hand. 
Then  Mr.  TallH)t,  W-ing  too  ])roud 
and  fitublKirn  to  o.'-k  a  second  timo 
directly  for  what  he  had  indirectly 
attempted  to  bring  alxmt,  wiid, 
'  Perhai*  you  are  right,'  and  went 


back  to  Ilaldon  in  no  pleasant 
niiiod. 

lie  left  Lionel  still  leaning  against 
tho  liunllo  at  one  end  of  the  slip, 
dreaming  a  day  (hvam — a  dream 
that  was  incongruous  in  such  a 
])Iace  at  such  a  time.  For  the 
glories  of  summer  were  over  the 
land  now.  The  odours  of  wild  thyme 
and  ro.ses,  of  iiiign(ji;ette  from  many 
a"  sheltered  garden,  of  clover  from 
ninny  a  shelving  field,  of  nieadow- 
swei.t  from  the  banks  of  the  ])urliiig 
strean:,  tho  ever-sounding  ripj)ies 
of  wliich  permealci,!  everything;  »U 
the-sc  fragiances  mingled  and  inten- 
sifud  themselves  in  the  golilen  sun- 
frauglit  air,  and  were  wafted  aroiuid 
and  about  him  by  a  sighing  western 
wind.  And  the  gra.ss  under  his 
feet  was  green,  thick,  and  springy  ; 
and  tlie  sky  above  him  was  briglit 
and  decked  graciously  for  the  eyes 
with  fleecy  clouds  of  silver  grey ; 
and  the  bee  hummed  an  accompa- 
niment to  the  air  tho  stream  sang; 
and  the  world  was  as  full  of  beauty 
as  the  man's  heart  wius  full  of  eare. 

So  in  the  lK)som  of  that  gorgeous 
mother,  at  the  shrine  of  the  god 
wIkjui  all  arti.sts  adore,  at  the  feet 
of  that  royal  mistress  who  never 
f])urns  a  loving  slavf,  so  here  alone 
with  Nature,  Lionel  Talbot  dreamt 
his  day  dream,  and  it  was  something 
after  this  wise. 

'  Tho  spell  she  wove  in  idleness 
for  Frank,  she  has  wrought  in  reality 
and  bitterness  for  me. 

■ "  No  woman's  Vivo  shall  llRhl  on  me, 
No  woman's  licart  be  niino."  ' 

The  sun  shone  on  still,  and  tho 
lark  sang,  and  tho  l)ee  hummed, 
and  the  river  ripi>l<d  just  as  tlu)Ugh 
God's graii<h-t  creation, man,  had  not 
K'en  making  man's  most  unnatural 
vow.  In  the  utterance  of  tlioso 
two  lines,  Lionel  was  binding  him- 
self to  celibacy  in  tho  event  of 
Illanche  Lyon  inarrving  any  other 
than  himself.  Meanwhile  IJlancho 
Lyon  and  Frank  Uathurst  were 
coming  to  an  understanding! 


^.i^a- 


425 


BOATING  LIFE  AT  OXFORD. 
CHAPTER  TIT. 

A   BUMP   SUPPER. 


OXFORD  snppers  in  general  are 
of  a  very  festive  cliaiar-ter. 
Breakfasts,  even  Avith  the  addition 
of  champagne,  are  tluU  in  Oxford, 
as  everywhere  else;  'wines'  arc 
solemn  festivals,  usually  unfestive ; 
but  sui'tpers  are  thoroughly  enjoy- 
able. At  supper  stiffness  and  re- 
straint vanish  in  the  steam  of  whisky 
punch,  and  joviality  and  good  feel- 
ing are  spread  around  with  the 
fumes  of  the  tobacco.  Take  an  il- 
lustration. Two  men  of  different 
Colleges  meet,  we  will  suppose  at 
wine ;  they  have  known  each  other 
by  sight  for  two  or  three  years,  and 
have  perhaps  met  once  or  twice 
before  on  similar  occasions.  They 
find  themselves  seated  close  together 
■with  a  bottle  of  port  between  them. 
Now  watch  their  behaviour.  They 
eye  one  another  furtively  for  the 
first  five  minutes,  then  one  ventures 
a  remark;  very  gradually  they  enter 
into  conversation,  and  as  the  port 
circulates  discuss  the  merits  of  the 
'Varsity  and  the  Derby  favourites 
with  tolerable  warmth  and  freedom. 
But  next  day  they  will  probably 
meet  and  pass  one  another  with  the 
same  furtive  glance  with  which  they 
met  the  evening  before.  Now  let 
those  men  face  each  other  at  the 
supper  table  ;  let  them  applaud  the 
same  speeches,  join  in  the  same 
choruses,  drink  of  the  same  liquor, 
and  smoke  the  same  tobacco,  and 
you  will  see  them  presently  hob- 
nobbiog  together,  proposing  each 
other's  health,  and  shaking  hands 
over  '  Auld  Lang  Syne,'  as  if  they 
had  been  '  chums'  from  their  youth 
up ;  and  if  they  meet  next  day,  there 
will  be  a  greeting  between  them  of 
some  sort,  not  perhaps  a  cordial 
'Hail-fellow-well-met,'  but  a  quiet 
nod  of  recognition  at  any  rate. 

So  suppers  alone  deserve  to  be 
called  festive,  and  therefore,  to  cele- 
brate a  College  success  and  express 
College  joy,  what  so  proper  and 
80  effective  as  a  College  supper? 
Such  was  always  the  feeling  in  St. 


Anthony's,  and  row  that  our  Torpid 
had  so  far  distinguished  itself  as  to 
make  thi'ce  bumps,  and  rise  to  the 
second  j^lace  on  the  river,  a  Bump 
Sujiper  was  a  matter  of  conrse. 

However  we  always  did  these 
things  in  a  constitutional  way  at 
St.  Anthony's;  so  Hallett  called  a 
meeting,  and  proposed  that  the  Col- 
lege should  do  honour  to  the  Torpid 
crew  by  giving  them  a  supper, 
which  was  unanimously  agreed  to. 

'  I  propose,  then,'  said  I£allett, 
'  that  we  ask  Mr.  Macleane  it  he  will 
be  good  enough  to  cater  for  us  ;  he 
knows  what  a  goad  supper  means 
better  than  most  of  us,  and  we  shall 
be  sure  to  have  our  liquors  of  tbe 
right  sort  if  Mr.  Macleane  has  the 
choosing  of  them.' 

Mai^leane  expressed  his  willing- 
ness to  accept  the  honourable  task, 
and  intimated  privately  to  his  im- 
mediate neighbours  that  he  would 
back  himself  at  evens  to  name  the 
vintage  of  any  wine  they  liked  to 
put  before  him,  and  that  champagne 
and  Moselle  were  his  peculiar  forte. 

'  We  must  leave  the  amount  of 
expenditure  to  Mr.  Macleane,'  went 
on  Hallett,  'and  when  we  know 
what  it  is,  share  it  amongst  us.  I 
hope  every  one  in  the  College  will 
subscribe,  and  come  to  the  siipi)er, 
and  help  to  make  it  as  jolly  a  one 
as  possible.' 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and 
Macleane  set  to  work  to  make  ar- 
rangements with  great  gnsto. 

St.  Anthony's  was  not  a  largo 
College ;  we  had  rather  over  sixty 
men,  and  some  four  or  five  of  these 
belonged  to  the  species  known  in 
Oxford  by  the  name  of  '  smugs,'  a 
race  of  wdiich  specimens  exist  in 
every  Ci)llege  in  Oxford,  and  which 
is  not  likely  at  present  to  become 
extinct. 

They  are  a  race  who  live  apart, 
as  far  as  Oxford  life  permits,  and 
appear  to  take  an  interest  in  nothing 
particular,  and  certainly  not  in 
things  in  general.    They  have  not, 


4  2G 


Boating  Lift'  at  Oxfurd. 


ns  far  fts  cnn  l>c  ascertuinotl,  any 
olijort  in  life,  nor  can  it  l)e  conjec- 
tured what olijtct  they  wi  re  intended 
to  serve,  e-jxcially  in  Oxtonl.  They 
are  ohserved  usually  to  herd  to- 
gether, to  wear  hair  and  In  an  Is  of 
an  eccentric  pattern,  and  attiro  of 
an  uncertain  i)erio(l,  varyinp. in  tint 
Irora  tilack  to  snuff  colour.  St. 
Anthony's,  I  say,  was  blest  with 
four  or  tivo  of  these  curious  crea- 
tures, and  of  course  lnunps  and 
Itump  sui)pers  were  tliincs  of  no 
interest  to  them.  However,  llallett 
thougld  tiiat  on  such  an  occasion 
they  ought  at  least  to  be  inviteil,  so 
Macleani'  went  rounil  ami  asked 
Iheni.  He  caine  back  to  JIallett  in 
a  state  of  great  disgust. 

'Confound  those  fellows!'  ho 
Baid.  '  Why  tlie  deuce  did  you  send 
me  to  such  infernal  holes  for?  I 
never  was  in  any  of  them  before,  or 
I  would nt  have  gone.  "Why  I've 
just  been  to  that  fellow  Daniels, 
and  there  ho  is  sitting,  Daniel  in 
the  den  of  lions,  tliat  is,  of  conrse 
there  are  no  lions,  l>ut  there's  a 
monkey,  ami  an  owl,  and  two  mon- 
grel piippiis,  and  the  den's  a  perfect 
copv  of  the  original,  and  ugh !  the 
smJll !' 

'  Well,  he's  the  worst,'  replied 
liallett ;  '  they're  not  all  as  %in\  as 
that;  l)ut  what  did  ho  eay? — is  ho 
coming'.''' 

'  Coming  '*  No,  of  course  ho 
isn't.  I  rapjx-d  out  the  invitation 
a.s  fast  a.s  1  could,  for  I  couldn't 
ptanil  the  monkey ;  but  he  said 
"  Much  ob'igo<l,  but  ho  didn't  go  to 
suppers,  and  ho  didn't  take  an  in- 
terest in  Utating."  So  I  said, 
"Thank  you,"  and  lK)lte<l,  and  I'll 
lay  heavy  odds  ho  never  sees  me  in 
the  doorway  again  ' 

'  Well,  you've  done  your  duty  at 
any  rate,'  said  liallett,  with  a  quiet 
chuckle. 

'  YcH,  and  somo  works  of  super— 
what  d'ye  call  'em  into  the  bargain. 
I'll  tell  you  what,'  sjiid  Maeleane, 
as  they  parted, '  it's  my  opinion  that 
the  existenec  of  Smuits  throws  con- 
sidendtlo  li(.'ht  on  the  question  of 
the  origin  of  sj)oeies  ;  they're  a 
much  Intter  link  Ix  tween  man  and 
bruto  than  the  gorilla  ' 

It  was  at  first  settled  that  leave 
sbonid  bo  asked  to  Lavo  the  supper 


in  the  hall ;  but  as  tlio  Smugs  were 
not  coming,  and  a.s  four  or  five  men 
who  had  failed  two  or  th.ree  times' 
before  in  'Smalls,'  being  anxious  to 
avoid  a  similar  mishap  again,  had 
also  reluctantly  declined  to  be  pre- 
sent, Maeleane  thou^'ht  tliat,  on  the 
whole,  the  thing  would  be  more 
enjoyable  if  held  in  his  own  rooms, 
the  largest  in  C|pllege. 

Accordingly,  on  the  appointed 
evening  a  little  before  nine  o'cloi-k 
a'Huit  tifty  men  wended  their  way 
to  Mr.  Mafleaiie's  rooms,  prepared 
to  '  make  a  night  of  it' 

The  room  in  which  wo  were  to  bo 
entertained  was  large,  but  not  lofty  ; 
the  walls  ])anelled  with  oak,  with 
two  bayed  and  mullioned  windows 
on  two  sides  of  the  room,  curtained 
with  rod.  On  the  walls  were  some 
of  the  popular  j)rints  of  the  day, 
with  several  of  a  spot  ting  character, 
and  a  portrait  of  Jlr.  Macleane's 
favourite  hunter,  with  that  gentle- 
man, in  unexceptionable  pink  and 
tops,  on  his  back.  At  one  end  of  the 
room  over  the  mantelpiece  was  a 
largo  mirror  ;  at  the  other  eml  was 
a  sort  of  trf)phy  of  tlie  clia.sc,  con- 
sisting of  a  fox's  mask  and  two 
brnslies,  surmounting  a  Inigi-  jiair 
of  bison's  horns,  about  which  whips, 
hunting-crops,  spurs, iVc, gracefully 
dangled.  Tables  wcro  stretched 
along  the  four  sides  of  the  room, 
leaving  room  at  two  corners  for  the 
'  scouts '  in  attendance  to  pa.ss  to 
and  fro  l)etween  the  outer  door  and 
tlie  inner  room.  Just  inside  the 
latter  was  posted  the  band,  vari- 
ously known  as  Tyrolese,  Polish, 
and  German,  under  the  direction  of 
the  renowneil  Schla)>pot1'ski.  Oys- 
ters, lobsters,  beef,  p" ■•"^.  fowls,  and 
all  sorts  of  cold  eatidiles  of  a  su')- 
stantial  nature  covered  the  tables, 
and  bottles  of  champagne  and  ]\Io- 
selle  stood  sentry  over  every  dish 
rea<ly  to  let  ffy  an<l  announco  that 
the  attack  liad  begun. 

'  Come  up  here,  n)y  lad,'  .sung  out 
Ikxter,  as  I  entered  the  nxun,  and 
was  proceeding  to  take  a  huniblo 
]>lace  among  somo  other  freshmen; 
'all  the  Torpid  sit  up  lure,  ajid  I 
want  you  by  me.'  He  was  seated 
on  llallett's  right  in  the  middle  ot 
the  longest  table,  wliicdi  was  the 
placo  of  honour.      '  It's  the  first 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford, 


427 


supper  you've  been  at,  isn't  it?' 
said  Baxter,  '  Well,  I'll  give  you  a 
bit  of  advice.  Don't  drink  too  much 
porter  with  your  oysters,  beware  of 
punch,  and  stick  to  the  "  fiz."  ' 

' "  Fiz  ?" '  I  said,  inquiringly. 

'  Yes,  fizzing  liquors,  you  know ; 
they  don't  leave  luadachc  and  "  hot 
coppers"  behind,  which  punch 
does.' 

* "  Hot  coppers  ?"  '  I  said  again. 

'  Well,  my  infant,  as  the  French 
say,  you  are  fresh.  Don't  you  know 
h'ow  your  mouth  feels  in  the  morn- 
ing after  a  little  too  much  smoke 
and  liquor  the  night  before?  No, 
of  course  you  don't,  but  you  will 
to-morrow,  I  dare  say.  You  smoke, 
don't  you  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  little.' 

'  Ah !  well,  make  the  most  of  your 
weed :  you'd  be  uncomfortable  if 
you  didn't  smoke  at  all,  and  you'll 
be  still  more  uncomfortable  if  you 
smoke  too  much.' 

I  could  see  that  Wingfield,  who 
sat  a  little  way  down  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  was  taking  in  these 
observations  of  Baxter's  with  all  his 
ears,  and  evidently  determining  to 
make  the  most  of  them  for  his  own 
use. 

•Are  all  the  Torpid  here?'  in- 
quired Hallett.  '  We  won't  wait 
for  anybody  else.' 

'All  here  now,'  replied  Vere,  as 
he  entered,  as  usual  the  last  man. 

'  Well,'  exclaimed  Tip, '  I  thought 
Mr.  Vere  would  be  in  time  to-night 
for  once.' 

'  Yes,  I  am  Fere-y  late,'  returned 
Vere,  quietly, '  but  you  see ' 

'  Well,  gentlemen,'  interposed 
Hallett,  '  as  everybody's  here,  we 
may  as  well  fall  to.' 

The  hint  was  taken  at  once,  and 
oysters,  lobsters,  &c.,  began  to  vanish 
at  a  marvellous  rate.  Then  com- 
menced the  popping  of  corks,  much 
resembling  the  '  tile-firing  from  the 
right  of  companies'  with  which 
Volunteers  are  familiar.  The  band 
struck  up,  and  so  did  chaff  and 
laughter  from  all  sides,  and  between 
that  and  the  clatter  of  knives  and 
forks,  the  jingling  of  glasses,  and 
the  firing  of  corks,  the  table  was 
soon  in  something  like  a  roar. 

'  Robert !'  shouted  Baxter  to  one 
of  the  scouts  who  was  rushing  about 


with  champagne  in  a  state  of  the 

most  gleeful  excitement,  'Jlobcrt, 
yoii  old  duffer,  come  here.' 

*  Yes,  sir,'  returned  Robert,  pnt- 
ting  his  hand  to  his  ear  to  catch  the 
order  in  the  midst  of  the  din. 

'Ask  Mr.  Percy  to  take  wine  with 
me,'  shouted  Baxter. 

Off  went  old  Robert  with  another 
grin. 

'  Mr.  Percy,  sir, — ]\Ir.  Baxter — 
pleasure  of  a  glass  of  wine,  sir.' 

'AH  right,'  said  Tip,  filling  his 
glass ;  '  health,  old  fellow  I' 

Thereupon  the  rest  of  the  room 
followed  suit;  everybody  drank  to 
everybody  else,  and,  '  Pleasure  of  a 
glass  of  wine,'  '  Looks  towards  you,' 
'  Health,  old  fellow,'  '  Here's  to 
you,'  &c.,  Aveut  across  the  tables  in 
every  dii'ection  for  the  next  ten 
minutes.  By  this  time  we  Imd 
nearly  appeased  our  appetites,  and 
were  ready  for  a  song,  so,  while  the 
relics  of  the  feast  were  being  ck  ared 
away,  Schlappoffsld,  or  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  '  Slap,'  came  for- 
ward, and  sang,  in  broken  English, 
one  of  the  popular  comic  songs  of 
the  day,  which  was  vociferously  ap- 
plauded, chiefly  because  everybody 
wanted  an  opportunity  to  make  as 
much  noise  as  possible.  By  the 
time  it  was  over,  the  punch  was  on 
the  table,  steaming  hot,  and  spread- 
ing that  soothing  and  delicious 
fragrance  which  makes  it  the  most 
SHftnctive  of  all  liquors  that  rejoice 
the  heart  of  man.  Boxes  of  cigars, 
pipes,  and  jars  of  tobacco  also  made 
their  appearance ;  and  when  each 
min  had  lit  his  pipe  or  his  weed, 
and  filled  his  glass,  Hallett  rose  to 
propose  the  first  toast  of  the  evening. 

'  Gentlemen,'  said  Hallett,  '  I  take 
it  for  granted  that  we  all  wish  good 
health  to  the  Queen  and  her  royal 
family  [hear,  hear],  so  I  shall  pro- 
ceed forthwith  to  propose  the  prin- 
cipal toast  of  the  evening,  I  mean 
our  gallant  Torpid  [cheers  and 
energetic  rattling  of  glasses  on  the 
table,  and  heels  on  the  floor,  con- 
tinued for  some  minutes].  Pve 
seen  a  good  many  Torpids  in  my 
time,'  said  Hallett,  '  but  I  never 
saw  any  for  pluck  and  perseverance 
and  real  good  training  to  beat  the 
St.  Anthony's  Torpid  of  this  year 
[  Renewed  cheers,  rattling  of  glasses. 


428 


Bootivij  Lift'  at  Oxford. 


ami   thnndtr  of    Lotls].      Wo  luul 
our  nsiml  "  St.  Antliou/s  luck  "  at 
tlio   l)epiiinint;  of  term.      Wo   lost 
some  of  tlio  nun  we  had  reckoned 
oil,  and  had  to  put  new  men  into 
tlio  Ixiat;  liut  liy  dint  of  their  own 
hard   grind,    the   erew  camo   to  he 
one  of  the  Ust  on,  and  you've  nil 
feen   the  result  [cheers  and  noises 
as  licfore].    I'm  sure  no  one  who  saw 
those  three   bumps,  esjxvially  that 
plorious  one  on  the  llrst  day  [Hur- 
rah and  trtmendouK  clieerinpj,  will 
ever  forpet  it:  I  shall  not  fur  one. 
Wo  shall  never  forget  Ik)w's  form, 
hi.s    straight    hack,    and    his    easy 
finish;    he's   the  prettiest   oar   I've 
seen,    except    dear    old    Thornhill 
[Loud    hear,    hear,    during    which 
l!ow  was  smitten  on  the  back  by 
everybody  within   reach   ;   and  we 
won't   forget    old     "Two"    [hoar, 
hear],  how  lie  was  always  late,  ["  Ila, 
ha,"  all  round  ami   a  quiet  smilo 
from  Vere],  and  how,  when  we  did 
get  him  int)  the  boat,  he  did  his 
work   from   end   to  end,  and  was 
never    known     to    shirk   [cluers]; 
and  we  won't  forget  how  "  Three" 
tried  for  a  montli  to  get  liis  l»ack 
straight,  and  did  it  at  last  ["  Bravo 
Three!"];  and    how   "Four"  was 
rather  lazy  in   training,   but  camo 
out  strong  in  the  races  [cheers,  and 
"  So  you  (h'd.  Four,  my  lK>y  "];  and 
we  won't  forget  how  "  Five's"  oar 
:ame  through  with  a  "  rug"  that 
maele  the  water  foam  [great  cheer- 
ing], and   "  Six "   looked  as  if  he 
meant  to  pull  the  iKjat  by  himself, 
and  "  Seven,''   with   his   long  back 
and  broad  chest,  reaching  out,  and 
)icking  up  the  time  like  clockwork 
cheers] ;   and,  if  we  forget   every- 
Kxly    else,   there's   one   man    we'll 
n'meml)er,     and    that's    "Stroke" 
[cheers— glas.'-es    and    heels    at    it 
again,  while  Baxter  patte<l  me  on 
tlie  liack  with  such  warmth  that  I 
was  oblig.d  to  reinonslrate].      Ho 
wa«   a   frohman    this    term,'   con- 
tinued   Haliett,  '  but  I  don't  mind 
saying,  tliat  hi.s  steady  rowing  and 
plucky    si)urt.s    would    have    done 
credit  to  the  oldest  oar  in  Oxford, 
and  i  ho|H)  to  sco  him  some  day  in 
the   wirinintr   Injat    on   tho   rutney 
water  [loud  hear,  luar,  and  "  Weil 
rowed.  Stroke"];  and  now,  gentle- 
men, though  laMt,  and   I'm  l*ounel 


to  say,  liast,  we  won't  forget  onr 
cox.  [Cheer!?,  at  which  Wmgfield 
did  not  attempt  to  conceiiil  his  grati- 
fication]. He's  a  freshman,  too, 
and  1  think  for  tlio  first  month,  as 
u.sual  with  a  new  cox.,  he  got,  .so 
to  speak,  "  more  kicks  than  half- 
pence:" however,  he  stuck  to  it, 
and  I'll  say,  with  all  due  deference 
to  Mr.  Percy  1"  All  right,  old  fel- 
low," from  'i'ipj,  that  in  six  nionihs' 
time  he'll  lie  as  well  al)lo  to  take  a 
l)oat  from  Putney  Bridge  to  the 
Ship  at  Mortlake  a.s  any  cox.  en 
the  (Xxford  river  (Hear,  hear,  and 
cheers].  And  now,  gentlemen, 
that  we've  cheered  them  all  sepa- 
rately, let's  clieer  tiiem  all  in  a 
lump.  Here's  to  the  St  Anthony's 
Torpid  and  the  three  bumps.' 

All  stood  u]),  glass  in  hand,  excapt 
the  heroes  of  the  toast:  the  banel 
struck  up  and  everybody  sang  "  For 
they  are  jolly  good  fellows,"  etc., 
which  was  succeeded  by  tremendous 
volleysof  cheers,  in  which  the  scouts, 
headed  by  old  Ilobert,  joined  with 
all  their  lungs.  Tiien  everybody 
tossed  oflf  his  ))unch,  and  '  No  heel- 
tap.s,' wasthecry  all  round.  'Stroke, 
my  boy,  your  health,'  '  Stroke, 
health,  old  fellow,'  '  Five,  your 
health,'  '  Cox.,'        '  Wingfield,' 

'  Stroke,'  '  Maynard,'  '  Bow,  iiealth, 
old  boy,'  and  so  on  till  the  men 
dropped  down  one  by  one  into  their 
seats,  and  there  was  .something  like 
a  calm  once  more. 

'  Beg  to  call  on  Mr.  Maclcane  for 
a  song,'  said  Haliett,  rising  imme- 
diately. 

'  Hear,  hear,'  from  all  sides,  and 
Macleane,  after  a  good  dcjil  e)f  en- 
couragement from  his  immediate 
neighbours  and  jmlls  at  the  ]iunch, 
gave  us  'A  hunting  we  will  g(j ' 
with  great  vigour,  warming  up,  as 
we  joined  him  in  the  choru>,  nou- 
rishing his  glass  in  one  hand,  and 
his  \^\])o  in  the  other,  and  shouting 
'  For  a  hunting  we  will  go,  my  boys, 
a  hunting  we  will  gf),'  in  a  state  of 
the  greatest  enthu.siasm,  finisliing 
up  at  last  with  a  '  View-holhja'  of 
the  most  Tigorous  de-crip' ion. 

After  that  I  found  1  had  to  return 
thanks,  which  turned  (ml  easier 
than  I  had  expeited,  and  then 
everylK)dy  called  out  '  Now  then, 
^lacleano,  it's  your  call.' 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


429 


'  I  know,'  said  Macleano ;  '  I 
think  I  can't  do  better  than  call  on 
the  celebrated  comic  singer,  Mr. 
Vere,  for  a  song.' 

'  Hear,  hear,'  shouted  Baxter ; 
'  he's  awfully  good,'  he  added  aside 
to  me,  '  beats  Mackney  and  those 
fellows  all  to  nothing.  Now  then, 
Vere,  strike  up,  old  man,' 

So  Vere,  with  a  very  dismal  face, 
began  an  extremely  comic  song, 
which  sent  me  into  fits  of  laughter, 
and  gave  Baxter  inexpressible  de- 
light. I  forget  what  the  song  was, 
but  I  know  there  were  some  imita- 
tions of  a  grandmother  and  four  or 
five  children  that  were  intensely 
amusing.  As  soon  as  it  was  over 
we  struck  up  the  inevitable  chorus 
■well  known  to  every  Oxford  man — 

'Jolly  good  song,  jolly  well  sung, 
Jolly  companions  every  one ; 
Put  on  your  nightcaps,  keep  yourselves  warm, 
A  little  more  liquor  will  do  you  no  harm.' 

Then  more  toasts  were  proposed, 
and  more  songs  sung.  '  The  Cricket 
Club,'  '  The  Eight,'  '  The  Hunting 
Interest,'  '  The  Volunteers,'  '  The 
men  who  had  taken  honours  in  the 
Schools,'  all  had  their  turn.  At 
last  Baxter  gave  *  The  Ladies,'  in 
terms  of  the  highest  gallantry, 
which  was  greeted  with  '  Here's  a 
health  to  all  good  lasses,'  &c. 

Before  it  was  over,  Macleane,  who 
had  had  rather  more  punch  than  his 
head  would  carry,  was  on  his  legs 
to  return  thanks.  '  Gentlemen,' 
said  Macleane,  in  an  impressive 
tone,  '  being — I  venture  to  think — 
a  general  favourite  with  the  fair 
sex.' 

'  Sit  down,  you  old  ass,'  said  Tip, 
■who  sat  near  him ;  '  who  asked  you 
to  return  thanks  ?' 

'  Mr.  Tip,'  rejoined  Macleane,  in 
a  tone  of  serious  rebuke,  '  your  con- 
duct is  un-ladylike,  I  mean  un — ' 

*  Now  do  go  to  bed,  there's  a  good 
fellow.' 

'  Gentlemen !'  continued  Mac- 
leane, ignoring  the  last  remonstrance, 
'  Mr.  Tip— considers,  that  I  ought 
not— to  return— to  return  to  the 
subject :  but,  gentlemen,  the  ladies 
— being — if  I  may  sho  speak,  our 
own— our  guiding  stars,  will — do — 
can — ' 

At  this  point  the  door  opened, 
and  %head  wearing  a  long  nose, 


and  sharp,  though  fishy  eyes,  was 
thrust  in.  It  was  Dick  Harris,  the 
College  messenger.  The  head  was 
immediately  assailed  with  missiles 
from  all  parts  of  the  room. 

'  Get  out,  Dick,  what  the  deuce 
do  you  want  ?' 

'  Oh,  let's  have  him  in,'  said  Bax- 
ter.    '  Here,  Dick,  have  some  grog.' 

'  Thankee,  sir,'  and  Dick  po- 
lished off  a  tumbler  of  strong  punch, 
in  a  way  that  showed  that  it  was  no 
new  beverage  to  him. 

'  Now  then,  Dick,'  said  Baxter, 
'  let's  see  if  you  know  the  article  on 
Predestination.' 

'  No,  no,'  interposed  Hallett, '  let's 
have  a  bit  of  Cicero.  Go  on ;  let's 
hear  you  pitch  into  Catiline.' 

Dick  began  at  once,  with  great 
emphasis  and  volubility,  *  How 
long,  0  Catiline,  will  you  abuse  our 
patience?'  &c.,  and  went  on  for 
about  half  a  page. 

'  That's  enough,  Dick ;  now  let's 
see  if  you  can  return  thanks  for 
the  Indies ;  Mr.  Macleane  can't  quite 
manage  it.' 

'  All  right,  sir.  Gentlemen,  when- 
ever I  hear  speak  of  returning 
thanks  for  the  ladies,  I  always  think 
as  how  I  ought  to  return  thanks 
for  my  old  woman  at  home.  She's 
a  sort  of  a  Rebecca  to  me,  you  know, 
gentlemen,  and  I  hope  I  aint  a  bad 
Isaac;  whenever  she  knows  as 
there's  going  to  be  a  festive  meet- 
ing, like  this  'ere,  in  CoHege,  says 
she  to  me,  "  Dick,"  she  says,  "  I  hope 
you  won't  go  to  forget  yourself."' 
[•  And  you  never  do,'  ironically  from 
Baxter.]  '  And  I  never  do,  sir,  and 
when  I  go  home,  as  it  might  be 
now  you  know,  sir,  she  says,  "  Ah, 
Dick,"  she  says,  "  what  a  blessin ' 
it  is  as  you  always  come  'ome 
sober. "  [Oh,  oh,  and  laughter :  for 
'  Dick  was  generally  '  overcome ' 
twice  a  week  at  least] ;  and  so  you 
see,  gentlemen,  I  know  the  valyer 
of  the  ladies,  and,  as  the  ladies 
stands  up  for  me,  I  stands  up  for 
them,  and— beg  pardon,  gentlemen,' 
said  Dick,  changing  his  tone,  '  the 
Dean  sends  his  compliments,  and 
he  hopes  you  won't  keep  it  up  n« 
longer,  for  it's  near  two  o'clock,  and 
he  can't  get  to  sleep,  he  says.' 

'  Oh,  hang  the  Dean.'  '  Ask  him 
in,'     '  Tell   him    to   put   another 


430 


Watching  a  Wmdoto. 


nightcap  on/  wcro  tho  cxclftuiations 
all  round. 

'  Well.  I  suppose  it's  about  time 
we  broke  up,'  wiid  Ilallett;  '  we'll 
have  nuo  more  jolly  i^ood  cliorus, 
and  then  stop.  What  shall  it 
be?' 

'  A  hunting  wo  Mill  go/  said 
^racleano. 

'  No,  no,  can't  do  liettcr  than 
•'  AulJ  lang  Syne,"'  as  usual,'  said 
Baxter.  '  Come  on ;  "  Should  auld 
acquaintance  1)6  forgot?'" 

And  off  wo  went  at  the  top  of 
our  voices,  while  Macleane,  with  his 
accompaniment  of  tumbler  and  pipe, 


stuck  manfully  to  '  A  liunting  w« 
will  go.' 

And  then  wo  all  retired,  some 
straight  and  some  by  ratlier  crooked 
paths,  to  our  respective  rooms.  I 
Ixlieve  my  footstc  ps  wavered  a  little 
when  I  got  into  tho  cold  night 
air;  but  1  walked  up  stairs,  lit  my 
candle,  and  wound  up  my  watch 
without  much  diinculty,  so  I  sui> 
pose  my  head  was  not  particularly 
muddled.  But  next  morning  I 
knew  tho  meaning  of  '  Hot  coppers/ 
and  had  no  rea.son  to  regret  that 
Bump  Suppers  were  a  comparative 
rarity. 


WATCHING  A  WINDOW. 

THE  bar  of  red  in  the  amber  west 
Burns  to  ashes,  and  all  is  grey, 
Though  a  sickle-moon  is  glittering  out 
Through  the  haze  of  the  dying  day. 

There  is  no  light  from  the  sickle-moon, 
And  fiist  the  pearly  greys  grow  dead, 

And  the  trees  grow  black,  and  the  flowers  dim, 
Till  the  beauty  of  all  has  fled. 

And  tho  pas-sion-flower.?  that — moonlight  ';;ied— 
Tangle  and  twine,  with  starry  grace, 

About  a  window  on  which  I  gaze, 
Even  these  will  the  night  efface. 

Already  the  wine-red  curtains  drawn. 
Hide  the  room  with  their  rudily  iri'>w, 

And  tho  face  is  gone  that  whitel^  sj.ized 
At  the  sunset  an  hour  ago. 

Gone!    Ah,  no;  as  I  speak  there  streams 
A  shaft  of  light  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

The  dew-wet  laurels  beneath  it  gleam, 
And  tho  flowers,  returning,  bloom. 

She  had  come  again,  and  with  eithci  :  and 

The  silken  damask  holds  apart. 
And  full  in  tho  streaming  light  she  sli.u  Is, 

Troubled  of  eye  and  heart. 

Full  in  tho  softening  light,  that  mal>-C9 

A  glory  round  her,  like  a  saint, 
I  sec  the  form  that  is  Art's  desj.iir. 

And  a  face  that  no  words  can  paint. 


J 


'vv: 


Drawn  by  Adelaide  Claxton.j 


"WATCHtNG  A   WINDOW. 


[See  the  Poem. 


Watclung  a  Winrfow.  431 

She  watches  and  waits  for  one  who  sta^s. 

For  one  beloved  she  looks  in  vain  ; 
And  the  big  black  eyes  are  fnll  of  tears, 

And  the  child-mouth  quivers  with  jpain. 

Passionful  longing,  and  not  reproach, 

Steals  the  blood  from  her  rounded  cheek  ; 
And  sadness,  born  of  the  hungering  heart 

That  suffers,  and  dare  not  speak. 

'  The  hours  drag  on,  oh,  love  of  my  he  avt ! 

"Wearily  on,  and  you  are  not  here  : 
A  hundred  terrors  oppress  my  brain  ; 

I  am  sick  to  swooning  with  fear. 

*  It  is  not  doubt,  oh,  life  of  my  life ! 

Oh,  truest,  and  fondest,  and  best ; 
But  I  am  a  woman,  and  womanly  fears 

Tear  and  distract  my  breast.' 

So  I  fancy  her  murmuring  low ; 

Yet  the  while  with  her  wistful  eyes 
She  gazes  into  the  garden's  gloom, 

And  up  at  the  darkening  skies. 

The  sickle-moon  has  the  gleam  of  gold 

In  the  deepening  blue  above ; 
She  thinks,  '  It  shines  not  for  me  alone; 

It  is  shining  on  him  I  love.' 

But  hark !    What  echo  the  silence  breaks  ? 

What  sound,  when  all  sound  seemed  dead  ? 
Her  cheek  is  changing  from  red  to  white,     • 

And  flushing  from  white  to  red ; 

And  the  big  eyes  glisten.    Yet  these  alone 

Are  the  sounds  on  my  ears  that  grate, — 
Hasty  footsteps  spurning  the  road, 

And  a  hand  on  the  garden  gate. 

W.  S. 


•132 


MR.  FATRWEATIIER'S  YACHTING. 

V,Y  TiiK  AiTUuu  uF  'Yachting  roind  the  \Vest  (f  England.' 


CHAPTER  in. 


ONE  morninpr,  alwut  a  week  after 
our  arrival,  I  was  surpriscil  to 
liiid  on  cntoriiig  tlie  sittiiiK-roora, 
tlmt  the  clotli  wivsnot  laid  for  brcak- 
fii.«-t.  and  my  wife  soon  after  called  mo 
to  siiy  tliat  slie  liad  l)een  ringing  for 
Siin|"kin.s  to  come  to  lier,  without 
8uctess,  for  the  last  half-hour.  On 
hearing  this,  I  determined  to  try 
the  awakening  power  of  the  sitting- 
room  Kll,  and  plied  it  so  vigorously, 
tliat  no  one  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  house  could  have  had  the  * 
assurance  to  assert  they  hud  not 
lieard  it.  The  ai)iKal  was  t(X) 
urgent  to  Ix)  neglected,  and  pro- 
duced Simpkins,  who  came  running 
up  brt.atldess,  and  big  with  intelli- 
gence. Slie  expressed  herself  some- 
what incoherently. 

'  Oh  !  ma'am,  1  l>eg  your  pardon, 
—  I  iK'g  your  pardon  for  keeping 
you  waiting— but— it  ha.s  given  mo 
such  a  turn— 1  really  could  not 
come  l)efore.' 

Here  she  pressed  her  hand  on  her 
side,  and  looked  as  though  sho  wore 
al>out  to  fall,  or  expl(^lo. 

'  What  is  it,  .Simpkins?'  cried 
my  wife,  in  alarm.    'Speak!     Are- 

thusa ?' 

'  No,  it  isn't  her,  ma'am.  Miss 
Art-thusa's  all  right— it's  Louise — 
Loui.'^o,  tlio  maid  — her  as  attends  on 
you  here!' 

'  What  of  her?'  a.sked  my  wife — 
relieved,  but  interested. 

'  Well,  ma'am,  I  may  as  well 
iK'gin  from  the  k-ginning.  As  I 
were  a-passing  the  (hx^r  at  seven 
o'clock  this  morning,  —  it  might 
have  t)cen  ten  minutes  past  seven, 
for  I  was  ft  little  late,  I  gtneniily 
get  up  when  1  h»nr  the  dock  strike 
six,  but  1  didn't  liear  it  this  morn- 
ing.    I  doii't  hold   much  to  them 

French  clwks ' 

'  Never  mind  the  clocks,'  I  inter- 
posed.    '  What  aliout  Louise?' 

'  Well,  8ir,  it  was  alKjut  ttn 
minutes  after  seven,  as  I  wits  a- 
pawiug  the  sitting-roooi  door,  I  saw 


it  open.  So  says  I  to  myself, 
"  Wiiat!  has  master  left  the  sitting- 
room  door  open  ':""  and  I  just  went 
to  look  in,  when,  who  sliouid  I  see 
but  Louise,  lying  in  an  arm-chair 
with  lier  broom  Ixjside  her.  Oh  I 
but  she  did  look  dremlful  bad,  sir, 
all  like  a  corpse  a'most,  and  1  felt 
the  cold  shivers  come  over  me. 
"Louise!"  says  I,  and  she  opened 
her  eyes,  "wliatevt-r  is  the  matter?" 
Sho  shook  her  head  but  made  no 
answer.  I  was  so  Iriglitened,  and  I 
thouglit  of  the  cholera,  which  is 
about  the  town ;  so  I  runs  and 
calls  IMons.,  ^hvlame  Clement,  and 
Ma(]ame  Clement's  mother,  and 
Marie,  and  Adolphe,  ami  they  car- 
ries her  up  to  litd;  and  we've  been 
rubbing  her  with  brandy,  and  now 
a  doctor's  sent  f.)r.' 

i^Iy  wife,  somewhat  uneasy  at 
.Simi)kins'  suggestion  of  the  cholera, 
Rent  for  Madame  Clement  imme- 
diately after  breakfast.  It  was  some 
time  l)efore  she  and  her  husband 
arnve<l,  but  when  they  did,  they  at 
once  satisfied  us  that  the  illness  was 
not  infectious  ;  ami  the  mistress  in 
a  few  words  e.Njtlained  to  my  wife 
the  real  cau.se  of  tho  poor  girl's 
wretchcfl  condition. 

But  what  liad  become  of  tho  in- 
fant? That  was  the  next  question  ; 
and  it  was  one  at  which  the  master  of 
the  house  iKjcame  livid.  He  begged 
i;s  to  1)0  silent,  and  to  keep  tho 
matter  quiet.  Ho  knew  that  tho 
French  police  were  inexorable. 
Were  any  suspicion  raised  they 
would  search  every  cranny  and 
corner,  tear  down  the  iirt-i)Iaces, 
turn  out  the  wine-cellars— ujiroot 
the  house  to  its  very  foundations. 
Ho  saw  nothing  Kfore  him  but 
public  (Xposnre,  aixl  his  guests 
migrating  from  his  hotel  •  >i  m'lssr. 
He  Itemoaned  liimself  as  tho  most 
unfortunate  ot  landlords,  and  the 
mi.series  of  Louise  ap])eared  to  him 
to  1)0  lost  in  his  own  imi)ending 
ruin. 


Mr,  Fairicealher^s  Yacliling. 


433 


Louise  would  give  no  information 
about  the  infunt.  la  vain  the  old 
grandmother  exhausted  her  softest 
blandisliiiieiits,  h.v  the  bed-side  ;  in 
vain  the  landlord  gesticulated  at  the 
door.  Chance,  fortunately,  brought 
to  light  what  entreaty  could  not 
elicit.  One  of  the  housemaids,  on 
opening  a  china-closet  adjoining  our 
sitting-room,  discovered  the  little 
object  of  search  wrapped  up  in  one 
of  our  dinuer- napkins.  The  good 
news  spread  like  wildfire;  every 
one  ftlt  relieved,  especially  the 
master  of  the  house.  The  only  cir- 
cumstance which  marred  his  satis- 
faction was,  that  the  child  was  not 
found  alive.  This  entailed  two  dif- 
ficulties; the  first  was  soon  dis- 
posed of,  for  the  family  doctor  gave 
a  certilicate  to  say  that  death  oc- 
curred from  natural  causes  imme- 
diately after  birth.  The  second  was 
of  a  religious  nature;  it  was  neces- 
sary that  the  child  should  have  been 
baptized  to  entitle  it  to  Christian 
burial.  The  same  rule  holds  good 
in  the  English  Church,  but,  whereas 
the  Eomauists  enforce  it  strictly  and 
to  the  letter,  our  ministers  chari- 
tably refrain  from  asking  questions, 
out  of  consideration  for  the  feelings 
of  parents  and  relations.  The  Eoman 
Church,  however,  while  it  renders 
the  rite  obligatory,  affords  greater 
facilities  for  its  administration.  Lay- 
men are  allowed  to  officiate,  and  in 
this  case  a  visitor  in  the  hotel  who 
had  accidentally  become  acquainted 
with  the  circumstances,  threw  some 
water  over  the  infant,  and  certified 
to  the  authorities  that  it  had  been 
duly  baptized.  The  priests  arrived 
the  next  morning  and  removed  the 
body,  chanting  the  solemn  services, 
and  preceded  by  white  robed  torch- 
bearers;  and  this  little  traveller  was 
conducted  to  his  last  resting-place 
with  as  much  ceremony,  and  with 
the  same  offices  of  the  Church,  as  if 
he  had  lived  to  a  ripe  old  age  and 
died  full  of  years  and  honours. 
There  was  only  one  difference: 
there  were  no  mourners  ;  poor  little 
Louis  Fleury  had  no  one  to  follow 
him  to  his  long  home.  He  had  but 
one  to  lament  him,  and  she  could 
not  be  present;  but  she  followed 
him  in  heart  though  not  in  person, 
and  was  a  more  sincere  moui'ner 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  LXV. 


than  any  ho  Avould  have  had  though 
he  had  died  a  patriot  and  his  bier 
had  been  borne  by  senators,  and 
crowned  with  the  garlands  of 
glory. 

All  cause  for  anxiety  seemed  now 
removed,  and  Louise  was  attended 
with  unremitting  care.  But  imagine 
what  a  shock  our  feelings  received 
when,  three  days  afterwards,  the 
little  coffi.n  reappeared  accompanied 
by  a  file  of  police.  They  marched 
into  the  hotel,  choked  up  the  hall 
and  gateway,  through  which  all  the 
visitors  i^assed,  with  their  long 
swords  and  cocked- hats.  M.Clement 
could  not  believe  that  they  were  not 
intentionally  prominent.  Such  an 
exhibition  would  have  brought  dis- 
grace on  a  private  house— to  a  hotel 
it  threatened  ruin.  The  gens  d'armes, 
however,  would  listen  to  no  remon- 
strances, but  two  of  them  demanded 
to  be  shown  into  Louise's  room, 
while  the  remainder  were  left  to 
keep  guard  at  the  door.  Louise 
was,  of  course,  in  a  very  feeble  state, 
and  the  poor  thing  trembltd  like  an 
aspen  leaf  on  hearing  the  dreadful 
tidings.  But  the  emissaries  of  the 
law  seemed  to  possess  neither  com- 
passion nor  delicacy.  They  clanked 
up  the  stairs,  stalked  into  the  middle 
of  the  room,  demanded  whether  her 
name  was  that  in  their  warrant,  and 
then  ordered  her  to  rise  instantly 
and  prepare  to  accompany  them.  In 
vain  she,  and  kind  Madame  Clement, 
prayed  that  she  might  at  least  be 
allowed  to  dress  herself  in  private, 
promising  to  be  ready  in  a  few 
minutes.  They  refused  to  make 
any  concession ;  and  it  was  through 
such  humiliation  as  this  that  she 
was  rudely  borne  to  prison.  What 
could  she  expect  from  a  jjolice  who 
had  treated  even  their  own  queen 
with  similar  brutality  ? 

I  happened  to  be  standing  in  the 
passage  when  she  was  brought  down, 
and  I  never  saw  her  look  more 
noble.  Her  complexion  seemed  as 
white  and  her  features  as  sharply 
cut  as  though  she  had  been  marble, 
and  the  indignities  she  had  suffered 
had  given  her  a  dauntless,  almost  a 
defiant  expre5sion.  I  could  not 
avoid  addressing  a  word  of  comfort 
to  her,  as  she  stood  between  those 
grim,  hard-looking  officials. 

2    V 


134 


Mr.  Fair  weather  a  Yacliilnij. 


'  Lotiisc,'  I  said,  '  may  GoJ  pro- 
tect you !' 

Sho  looked  round,  made  no  ropl.v, 
but,  Inir.vin};  her  face  in  her  Immls, 
burst  into  tears.  A  word  of  kind- 
ness can  ti)nch  the  heart,  which  no 
indipnilies  can  comiuer. 

After  her  deparluro,  and  after 
Koothing  my  wife's  sorrow  for  poor 
Louise,  and  indignation  attlio  brutal 
treatment  sho  liail  met  with,  even 
aiimitting  her  guilt,  I  sought  our 
landlord  to  inquire  what  had  been 
the  cause  of  this  visit  of  the  jiolico. 
Ho  said  he  feared  the  servants  in 
the  house  had  l)ecu  talking  about 
the  aff.iir  outside,  and  the  carpenter 
who  made  the  collin,  and  perhaps 
some  of  the  fe:nale  neighbours,  had 
been  too  inrpiisitivc,  and  so  the  un- 
fortunate oci^urrouce  had  come  round 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  authorities. 

We  took  so  much  interest  in  the 
fate  of  Louise,  standing,  in  the  prido 
of  youth  and  strength,  on  the  very 
brink  of  death,  accused  of  a  crime 
which  m'giit  lead  her  to  execution, 
and  that  by  the  gui!lotinc,with  all  its 
revolting  associations,  that  my  wife 
applied  for  permission  to  visit  her 
in  prison.  Thi.'<,  after  some  forma- 
lities had  been  com})lied  with,  was 
granted,  and  the  day  and  hour  fixed. 
1  Kuppos((l  that  I  should  have  been 
allowed  to  a -company  her,  although 
niy  name  was  not  inserted  in  the  per- 
mit ;  but  I  fouml  that  I  was  mis- 
taken, a.s  tlic  police  regulations  wtro 
stringent  upon  the  sulyect.  Emily 
felt,  naturally,  very  nervous  at  tho 
thought  of  traversing  tho  dark, 
narrow  pa.s.sages  alone  with  her  grim 
escort,  but  sho  determined  not  to 
Imj  deterred  from  her  charitable  un- 
dertaking. Tho  French  police  aro 
a  severe,  moro.'O  set  of  men,  and 
have  nnne  of  tho.oc  pretty  ways 
which  inakcH  the  Lfjudon  '  blue'  so 
a<Ti[(fabl(;in  the  public-house  and  so 
irre.sistiMo  on  tho  area  step.  Thoy 
seem  to  liavo  no  feelings  in  common 
with  tho  rest  of  mankind ;  and  my 
wife  felt  an  involuntary  chill  pass 
over  her  as  she  gazed  at  their 
Itardened,  innexil)lo  features,  and 
thought  how  littlo  consideration 
jKjor  Louise o)uld  (xpeet  from  them 
ill  her  desolate  and  appalling  posi- 
tion. 

While    thoughta  such    an    these 


were  passing  through  her  mind,  she 
found  herself  in  a  small  cliandier  or 
rather  closet,  into  which  a  little 
ajwrture  near  the  ceiling  scarcely 
admitted  the  li^htofday.  On  ouo 
side  was  a  double-grating,  so  con- 
trived by  means  of  the  close  inter- 
lacing of  the  liars,  and  tho  distance 
between  the  two  iron  burriors,  that 
it  would  have  been  almost  iinpo*^- 
Bible  to  transmit  any  article  through 
it.  Emily  gave  an  involuntary 
shudder  as  the  gaoler  proceeded  to 
shut  and  douMe-lock  tho  door 
behind  her.  She  felt  almost  de- 
priveil  of  breath  in  such  a  narrow, 
dismal  cell,  and  begged  that  it 
miglit  not  bo  entirely  closed.  The 
functionary  merely  replied  that  he 
must  obey  his  onlers,  and  sliot  the 
massive  bolts.  Then  parsing  round 
to  tho  other  side  of  the  grating,  ho 
unlocked  a  gate,  which,  as  it  groaned 
upon  its  hinges,  discovered  a  yard 
beyond,  secured  at  every  point  of 
access  by  heavy  iron  gratings. 
Within  this  ill-omened  precinct  sat 
several  squalid,  repulsive-looking 
women,  in  moody  silence  or  fitfid 
conversation,  and  at  one  side  my 
wife  recngni.sed  Louise,  standing 
aloof  from  the  rest,  and  easily  di.s- 
tingiiishable  l>y  her  superior  mien, 
by  tho  neatness  of  her  dre.ss,  and 
the  whiteness  of  her  country  cap. 
She  was  motionless,  and  looked  in- 
expressibly sad,  as  if  overcome  by 
a  sense  of  her  degradation.  It  is 
surprising  what  an  eftVct  is  pro- 
duced by  the  mere  consciou.sness  of 
being  in  pri.son,  even  upon  tho.so 
who  aro  .so  undeservedly.  There 
must  be  pometliing  in  its  mere  at- 
mosphere which  seems  to  convey  a 
taint. 

The  statue-like  girl  started  with 
a  look  of  terror  as  tho  gaoler  thun- 
dered out  from  tho  iron  door, 
'  Louise  Fleury.'  She  came  forward 
trembling  ;  but  as  she  entered  the 
passage  and  saw  my  wile  on  the 
other  side  of  the  grating,  she  seemed 
reassured;  but,  unablo  to  restram 
licr  grief,  burst  into  a  paroxysm  ot 
sobs  and  tears.  My  wife  said,  in 
gentle  terms,  that  the  oliject  of  her 
visit  was  not  to  aggravate  licr  sor- 
row, but  to  tiring  con.solation  ;  to 
hope  that  her  innocence  ot  the  foul 
charge  might    bo  proved,   and  to 


Mr.  Fairweather's  Yachting. 


435 


know  what  she  wished  to  have  in 
the  way  of  clothes,  or  such  little 
gifts  as  were  allowed  to  the  untried 
prisoners.  Poor  Louise  was  very 
anxious  that  her  mistress  should 
take  charge  of  her  box,  in  which 
were  some  little  trinkets  she  valued, 
and  also  that  her  thimble  and 
needles  and  thread  should  bo  sent 
to  her,  as  thougli  the  prison  autho- 
rities provided  work,  they  did  not 
provide  the  means  of  doing  it. 
Emily  then  asked  her  whether  since 
her  imprisonment  she  had  heard 
from  the  individual  who  bad  been 
the  cause  of  all  her  misery. 

Her  face  fiushe  1  with  indignation 
as  she  emphatically  replied, '  Xo  ;  be 
has  never  written  nor  inquired  since.' 

'Does  he  know  the  position  in 
which  you  are  placed  ?' 

'  He  knows  it,  but  does  not  care, 
provided  he  is  not  troubled.' 

She  spoke  with  so  much  emotion, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  much  re- 
serve on  this  subject,  that  my  wife 
refrained  from  making  further  in- 
quiries as  to  any  marriage  having 
taken  place.  On  one  point  Louise 
was  inflexible :  suffer  what  she  might, 
she  would  never  betray  the  name  of 
the  unworthy  individual  she  had 
once  loved  so  devotedly. 

'You  have  parents?'  continued 
Emily.    *  They  have  written  to  y ou  ?' 

'  No,'  she  said ; '  they  do  not  know 
where  I  am.  I  left  my  place,  and 
came  to  Calais  unknown  to  my 
friends.  What  will  become  of  me  !' 
she  exclaimed.  '  If  the  worst  does 
not  happen,  they  will  send  me  to 
the  prison  for  women  at  Eennes  for 
five  years,  and  I  shall  then  be  cast 
forth  without  a  home,  or  a  cha- 
racter to  procure  me  one.' 

My  wife  was  greatly  affected ;  she 
reminded  her  that  she  should  place 
her  trust  above.  Moreover,  that  she 
had  a  good  friend  in  Monsieur 
Clement,  the  master  of  the  hotel,  and 
that  she  herself  would  not  forget  her. 
At  last  Emily  was  reminded  that 
the  time  allowed  for  the  interview 
was  past,  and  bade  a  sad  farewell 
(perhaps  for  the  last  time)  to  one 
who,  at  the  commencement  of  our 
short  sojourn  at  Calais,  had  seemed, 
in  the  bloom  and  confidence  of  youth, 
to  be  looking  forward  to  a  long  and 
happy  life. 


Our  stay  in  Franco  was  now  draw- 
ing to  a  close ;  but  before  leaving 
we  added  our  mite  to  a  subscription 
which  had  been  set  on  foot  for  poor 
Louise  in  the  hotel,  that  she  should 
not  be  entirely  penniless  when  dis- 
charged from  prison.  It  amounted 
to  about  three  hundred  francs,  and 
had  to  be  put  in  trust  for  her,  and 
her  box  of  clothes  to  be  inscribed 
with  M.  Clement's  name  to  i:>revent 
its  being  appropriated  by  the  au- 
thorities. My  wife  wrote  a  strong 
testimonial  in  her  favour,  to  be 
presented  on  her  trial,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  evidence  of  the  master 
and  mistress  of  the  house  on  her 
behalf. 

I  must  here  digress  a  little  from 
the  order  of  events  to  add,  that 
during  the  winter  the  welcome  intel- 
ligence arrived  that  Louise  had  been 
acquitted,  and  that  she  had  been 
received  back  by  the  master  of  the 
hotel,  partly  frcm  charitable  motives, 
partly  because  he  could  nowhere 
find  a  more  willing  or  efficient  ser- 
vant. Our  stay  in  France  had 
proved  so  agreeable  that  we  pro- 
posed to  visit  Paris  early  next  spring, 
and  as  we  had  to  pass  through 
Calais  we  determined  to  stop  for  the 
night,  and  take  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  Louise  again.  Emily  ob- 
served to  me,  however,  that  she 
should  treat  her  distantly,  and  not 
make  a  pet  of  one  who  had  laid  her- 
self open  to  so  grave  a  suspicion. 
Alas!  we  were  never  called  upon 
to  exercise  our  reserve.  She  had, 
indeed,  returned  to  the  hotel,  but 
she  could  not  underiake  her  former 
duties,  for  she  shunned  the  light 
and  the  face  of  human  kind.  Her 
mistress  kindly  employed  her  in 
needlework  in  a  back  room  into 
which  no  one  else  was  allowed  to 
enter,  and  where  for  several  weeks 
she  worked  indefatigably.  But  the 
cold  and  damp  of  the  prison  had,  in 
her  then  feeble  state,  laid  the  seeds 
of  an  incurable  disease.  She  gradu- 
ally drooped  and  languished,  until 
she  was  unequal  to  any  exertion, 
and  although  Madame  Clement  pro- 
vided her  with  every  comfort,  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  a  burden,  and 
requested  to  be  removed  to  the  hos- 
pital. There,  after  three  days,  she 
breathed  her  last,  without  a  relation 
2  F  a 


43G 


Mr.  Fa'ntceathcr't  Yachting. 


to  ftttcnd  her,  with  no  ono  besiilo 
lur  but  thi'  mistiY'ss  of  tho  liotcl, 
wliDso  licnrt  liatl  In^cn  toiii-lied  by 
her  iiiisrortuno*,  and  l)y  tlio  patienco 
with  wliioh  slio  had  Kiriio  tliciu. 
She  sank  back  into  a  sweet  sleep 
witli  her  hojws  fixed  on  lieaven,and 
her  expression,  I  was  told,  was  as 
peac«  fill  and  serene  as  thoniili  she 
had  lK?en  alreaiy  an  angel  of  iiglit. 
It  was  perliaps  for  the  l>est  tliat  sho 
was  removed  from  this  censorious 
world.  She  is  now  l)cyoud  thereaeli 
of  tho  slights  and  reproaches  of 
man,  and  is  gone  to  a  uioro  merciful 
Judge  than  any  sho  wouM  have  had 
Dp  )n  eartli.  HohI  tenelies  lis  most 
btautifully  how  to  bid  farewell  to 
such  a  child  of  sorrow  :  — 

•  Cross  licr  IhimU  humbly 
As  if  praying  ilumbly. 

Over  luT  breast; 
Owning  her  woukncsa, 

Her  evil  bohavionr, 
Am)  leaving,  with  nieekness, 

Ilcr  oins  to  her  Saviour.' 

But  to  return  to  our  narrative. 
At  length  tlio  time  of  our  departure 
arrive  1;  everything  was  arranged, 
and  thirty  francs  piid  to  the  harbour 
authorities,  in  excliangc  f  )r  which  I 
received  a  sheet  of  paper  so  einln.!- 
li.shed  With  crowns  and  eagles  that 
I  might  have  suii])o-eil  1  liad  re- 
coivcl  a  patent  of  nobility.  Tlure 
is  in  the  yachtsman's  movementa  a 
pleasant  uncertainty,  as  they  depend 
upon  tiie  1110.4  variable  of  ail  things, 
wind  and  weather.  But  on  this  oc- 
casion we  were  fortunate,  for  on 
the  day  proposed  tlio  breczo  wa.s 
from  the  west,  and  the  morning 
bright  a  d  genial.  All  was  bustle 
as  we  pa.«sed  out  of  the  liaibour,  for 
tho  fisliingl>oats  — (iuaiiit-lo;)king, 
three-masted  luggers,  manned  by 
tlio  noisiest  and  most  demonstrative 
of  failors— were  also  prei)aring  to 
take  advantage  of  the  tide.  As  tho 
little  fleet  .sailed  on  its  way  under 
tho  bipak water,  tho  rough  seamen 
suddenly  paused  ;  every  voice  was 
hu^lKd,  every  cap dolTcd.  A  priest, 
easily  jlislingnislmblo  by  his  broad 
hat  and  voliiminoUH  gown,  had  a<l- 
vanccd  to  the  edge  of  tiie  i)ier ;  and, 
Btanding  with  outstretched  arm.s, 
wafl  invoking  a  bles.'-ing  on  the  ei- 
pc<lition.  The  Bccno  was  most  im- 
prcsfsive,  and  it  was   ploasing    to 


ob.servo  tliesc  men,who.-c  lives  were 
so  often  in  their  hands,  recognizing 
the  ]K)\vtr  by  which  they  Avero  pre- 
served. 

The  8ca  continued  calm  until  we 
opened  Capo  (irizncz.  which  lies 
to  the  west  of  Calais,  and  acts  as  a 
breakwater  against  tho  waves  of  tho 
Channel.  Outside  this  point  we 
l)egan  to  pitch  and  roll  very  con- 
siderably. When  wo  were  near 
mid-channel  wo  perceived  a  cloud 
nuil  fall  of  rain  darkening  the  western 
horizon,  and  tho  captain  baile  us 
prejiare  for  a  shower.  As  the  squall 
■  approached  nearer  wo  found  our- 
.selves  in  a  calm.  The  wind  dropped 
completely,  so  that  the  sails  flapi)ed 
to  and  fio,  ami  the  topsail  was 
ordered  to  lie  laced.  The  cloud, 
however,  soon  relieved  us  by  passing 
ofT  towards  the  coast  of  France.  I 
had  never  seen  tho  proverb  that  'a 
lull  precedes  a  storm'  so  strikingly 
illustrated.  The  brcozo  was  soon 
as  fresh  as  ever,  and  the  water  be- 
came rougher  as  we  j)rocecded.  Tho 
wind,  moreover,  had  veered  round 
towards  the  north,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  make  Dover,  and  wo 
shaped  our  course  in  the  direction 
of  the  Downs.  Shortly  before  reach- 
ing them  the  captain  jiointed  to  a 
little  white  line  on  the  eastern  hori- 
zon, which  he  said  was  the  surf 
breaking  on  tho  Goodwin  Sands. 

'  The  Goodwin  Sands !'  Emily  ex- 
claimed in  terror.  'The  Goodwin 
Sands !  That  I  should  ever  have 
ventured  ujion  such  an  expedition. 
It  is  teiii])ling  rrovideiice,  Joseph. 
We  shall  never  see  our  home  again, 
and  there  is  Arethu.'-a  standing  in 
tho  wet  in  her  thin  boot.s.  Sanp- 
kins,  where  are  Jliss  Arethusa's 
clumps?    How  often  have  I ' 

*  Itaint  my  fault,  ma'am,' hiccuped 
Simpkins.     '  Miss ' 

'  Not  a  word,  Simi)kin8— not  ano- 
ther word.  Oh  those  dreadful 
Goodwin  Sands!  I  seo  tho  sea 
breaking  mercilessly  upon  them. 
Wo  shall  all  be  droAvned.  Now, 
Joseph,  mind  what  I  f-ay.  Arethusa 
is  to  l>o  saved  first,  then  you,  then 
Simpkins,  and  I  last  of  all.' 

'  J5ut,  my  dear ' 

'  Now  don't  gainsay  mo.  Simp- 
kins, olny  my  orders.  You  are  to 
bo  saved  before  me.    Sho  has  somo 


Mr.  Fairweather's  Yachting, 


437 


to  lament  her— a  sister  in  California. 
No  one  will  care  for  ray  loss.' 

In  vain  I  endeavoured  to  alter  my 
wife's  resolution.  At  the  same  time 
our  means  of  safety,  under  Emily's 
supposition  that  vessel  and  boat  were 
lost,  were  of  the  slenderest  descrip- 
tion. They  consisted  of  a  hamper 
and  bucket,  the  boathook  and  the 
mop  :  there  was  notliing  else.  Ac- 
cording to  my  wife's  arrangement, 
the  mop  would  fall  to  her  share.  I 
endeavoured  to  persuade  her  to  take 
the  bucket  or  the  boathook.  I 
argued  that  her  life  was  valuable  on 
many  accounts,  and  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  preserve  it.  But  all  was  of 
no  avail.  I  could  not  shake  her 
noble  determination,  so  I  resigned 
the  boathook  to  Simpkins. 

The  line  in  the  horizon  was  very 
soon  out  of  sight.  We  had  passed 
the  South  Foreland,  and  were  enter- 
ing the  smoother  water  of  the  Downs. 
In  two  hours  more  we  anchored 
at  Ramsgate,  and  the  custom-house 
authorities  were  again  alongside. 

*  You  have  had  a  rough  passage, 
sir,'  said  the  spokesman ;  '  but  you 
have  had  a  good  wholesome  craft 
under  you;  not  so  fast  as  some, 
perhaps,'  glancing  at  the  bow,  'but 
one  til  at  stands  the  sea  ;  not  a  strip 
of  a  thing  like  a  man's  coffin.' 

It  was  delightful  to  meet  with 
civility  where  we  expected  rude  in- 
quiries and  investigations.  They 
offered  to  take  us  on  shore  in  their 
boat,  and  paid  us  so  many  compli- 
ments on  our  vessel  and  seamanship 
that  I  felt  quite  ashamed  at  offering 
them  only  tive  shillings.  The  cus- 
tom-house officials  seldom  examine 
yachts,  and  1  believe  the  confidence 
they  thus  repose  in  the  honour  of 
owners  is  generally  well  founded. 

Thus  ended  the  grand  expedition 
of  our  summer.  We  made  several 
little  excursions  afterwards,  but  we 
look  upon  this  as  our  most  im- 
portant and  hazardous  enterprise. 
Among  the  results  which  accrued 
from  it  was  the  unfortunate  one  of 
attaching  a  nickname  to  our  boy 
Harry.  It  appears  that  James,  dur- 
ing his  stay  in  Calais,  had,  although 
a  thorough  British  tar,  been  guilty 
of  acquiring  several  French  words, 
which  he  was  constantly  airing,  and 
at  the  same  time  of  betraying  an 


unmistakable  affection  for  wines  and 
liquors  manufactured  in  France. 
One  of  his  words  was  tire-bouchon, 
and  as  he  was  invariably  in  want  of 
the  corkscrew,  he  was  constantly 
searching  and  asking  for  it  both  in 
French  and  English.  On  Harry's 
returning  home  to  the  little  old 
village  in  Essex,  all  the  neighbours 
"were  feign  to  bear  of  his  adventures 
in  foreign  lands,  and  he  gratified  their 
curiosity  to  such  an  extent  in  re- 
lating all  he  had  seen  and  done,  that 
he  came  to  be  looked  upon  as  the 
most  wonderful  boy  that  bad  ever 
lived.  Among  other  things  he  said 
he  could  speak  French,  but  whtn- 
ever  he  was  called  upon  to  give  a 
specimen  of  the  language,  he  could 
remember  no  word  but  tirc-houchon. 
The  other  little  village  boys  whose 
wits  were  sharpened  by  jealousy 
were  quick  enough  to  discover  this, 
and  they  gave  him  the  name  of  Tire- 
houclwn  Smith,  which  he  has  borne 
ever  since,  and  is  likely  to  carry  all 
his  days. 

The  yacht  was  laid  up  for  the 
winter  at  Gravesend,  the  rigging  and 
stores  were  safely  housed  on  shore, 
and  the  captain  alone  remained  in 
charge.  As  spring  approached,  I 
consulted  him  about  the  forthcoming 
season,  and  observed  that  I  intended 
to  undertake  more  adventurous  ex- 
peditions than  heretofore.  I  could 
not  have  anticipated  any  difficulty 
in  the  way,  for  the  seller  of  the  yacht 
had  assured  me  she  had  weathered 
gales  in  which  steamers  had  been 
disabled,  and  Brown  himself  had 
avowed  his  willingness  to  sail  in  her 
to  the  West  Indies  and  bring  back  a 
cargo  of  sugar.  But,  to  my  sur- 
prise, he  looked  very  serious  at  my 
communication,  said  she  was  not 
large  enough  for  the  more  exposed 
parts  of  the  Channel,  and  that  for 
such  voyages  as  I  contemplated  I 
ought  to  have  a  vessel '  as  big  again.' 
I  had  already  discovered  that  she 
scarcely  afforded  sufficient  accommo- 
dation to  be  comfortable  for  any 
long  period, and  that  she  necessitated 
our  sleeping  on  shore  during  our  ex- 
peditions, thus  entailing  a  double 
expense.  Besides  this,  several  re- 
novations and  additions  were  desira- 
ble in  her,  and  it  would  be  better  to 
expend  money  on  a  vessel  more  per- 


438 


Mr.  Fainccathcr's  Yachting. 


mancntly  useful.  I  dotormineil, 
tbcrcforo,  to  sell  the  Zophyrina,  ami 
was  platl  I  had  taken  bo  luuch 
trouMo  in  eekctinp:  lier,  as  it  was 
DOW  likely  to  bo  )ej>ai(l.  I  forth- 
with inserted  the  following  iu  '  IJull's 
Life  :•— 

'  Yacht  for  Sale.— A  twenty-fivo 
ton  cutter,  ei^^ht  years  oM.  Is 
strongly  l)uilt,  co]iper- fastened,  and 
a  first-rate  Fea-boat.  Stove,  boat, 
and  cabin  fittings  new  last  year. 
Price  moderate.  Addre-t^s  "  Nep- 
tunus,'  care  of  Jlr.  Salt,  &c.' 

I  consiilered  this  to  bo  a  very 
taking  advertisement,  although  I 
was  convinced  that  so  good  a  craft 
would  he  easily  disposed  of  without 
any  such  expedient.  I  received  fivo 
answers  to  it.  Two  were  from 
agents,  one  of  whom  thought  it 
highly  probable  ho  might  obtain  a 
purcliaser,  and  inquired  whether  I 
should  object  to  i)a.ving  tho  usual 
commiss-ion ;  tho  other,  a  man  of 
more  experience,  had,  at  that  very 
moment,  a  gentleman  requiring  just 
such  a  vessel  as  I  described,  and  re- 
quested that  particulars  might  bo 
forwarded  immediately.  Of  tho 
three  remaining  answers,  ono  was 
from  a  country  squire,  re.'^iding  at 
Greenfield  Park,  Shropshire,  who 
had  drawn  up  a  most  elaborate 
cattchism  for  my  benefit,  requiring 
a  detailed  account  of  the  yacht  from 
the  time  that  her  keel  was  laid 
down,  and  adding  that  if  tlic^o  ques- 
tions were  answered  satisfactorily, 
he  would  undertake  tho  journey  to 
inspect  her.  The  other  two  replies 
consisted  of  only  a  few  lines,  request- 
ing permission  to  view.  I  returned 
answers  to  all,  and  fearing  that  tho 
low  price  might  excite  suspicion, 
observed  that  I  had  named  it  from  a 
desire  to  find  an  immediate  pur- 
chaser. Tho  sura  I  lixed  was  fifty 
pounds  Wlow  what  she  had  cost  me, 
and  as  I  had  been  informed  that  she 
was  worth  <Ioul)!e  what  I  had  given, 
these  appeared  to  mo  unusually 
moderate  terms.  The  inquiries  of 
my  Arcadian  friend  1  ilid  not  answer, 
for  the  grK)fl  reason  that  1  was  un- 
able toaflfird  tho  desired  informa- 
tion. I  should,  perhaps,  have  I>ecn 
more  circumstantial,  but  that  I  sup- 
posed the  vessel  would  Ixj  sold  at 
^OQco,  but,  as  it  was,  merely  sent 


him  references,  and  never  heard 
from  him  again. 

Agent  No.  2  wrote  after  somo  de- 
lay to  state  tiiat  he  had  inspected 
Zephyrina,  but  that  she  was  quite 
luisuitablo  for  tho  gentleman  to 
wlumi  he  had  attended.  Ho  added 
that  he  had  Bold  such  a  vessel  the 
week  before  for  half  the  price;  but 
still,  that  there  wt'rc  a  cins.s  of 
customers,  an  entirely  different  class, 
whom  slie  might  suit.  No.  4  wrote  the 
Jiy  after  a  very  curt  reply,  to  say  he 
did  not  require  an  nil  vessel.  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  undei stand  these  letters. 
Such  gratuitous  impertinence  must 
emanate  from  some  senseless  wags 
who  were  playing  olT  on  me  their 
miserable  pleasantries,  or,  which  was 
more  likely,  from  somo  designing 
rogues  who  imagined  a  yachtsman 
could  be  easily  imposed  upon.  I 
did  not  condescend  to  reply  to 
cither.  No.  5  sent  me  an  ofl'er,  but 
his  terms  were  somewhat  remarkable 
with  regard  to  payment.  1  was  to 
receive,  as  an  equivalent,  a  promis- 
sory note  and  a  group  of  dancing 
figures.  The  note  had  been  given 
by  a  gentleman  whose  pro])erty  was 
in  Ciiancery,  but  the  work  of  art 
had  been  exliiliifed  at  tho  Great  Ex- 
hibition, and  valiud  liy  the  sculptor 
at  500/.  Now,  distance  does  not, 
unfortunately,  in  the  case  of  money, 
'  lend  enchantment  to  tho  view,'  and 
I  knew  too  much  al)Out '  the  law's  de- 
lays '  to  look  very  favourably  upon  a 
security  dependent  upon  a  suit  in 
Chancery.  Put  witli  regard  to  the 
group,  I  own  to  having  a  little  weak- 
ness for  statuary,  and  I  thouglit  it 
would  give  a  classic  air  to  the  stair- 
case window ;  but  on  showing  a 
sketcli  of  it  to  ray  wife,  she  de- 
clared she  had  never  seen  an} thing 
BO  indelicate,  and  that  such  a  thing 
should  never  come  into  /c  /■  house. 
I  was,  therefore,  compelled  to  refuse 
this  ekgant  consideration. 

Another  advertisement  was  now 
inserted,  but  alWiough  I  recived 
several  answers,  there  was  no  otTer, 
and  ono  of  my  correspondents  had 
the  incivility  to  write  to  me  that  ho 
would  not  take  a  i)roKent  of  such  a 
vessel.  Put  meanwhile,  a  gentle- 
man who  had  not  seen  tho  adver- 
tisement, had  lx:en  inspecting  her, 
and  sent  mo  an  offer  within  twenty 


Mr.  Fairweathers  Yachting. 


439 


pounds  of  the  price  I  liad  named. 
It  came  fi'om  a-  gcutleman  who, 
the  captain  informed  me,  had  been 
to  visit  the  Zcplij  rina  .several  times, 
and  seemed  highly  pleased  with 
her.  He  was,  he  added,  a  young 
gentleman,  a  ratlier  wild-looking- 
gentleman,  and  when  he  went  on 
board,  he  ran  up  and.  down  the 
rigging,  and  worked  away  at  the 
pumps,  and,  in  short,  carried  on  his 
examination  with  so  much  energy, 
that  only  for  himself  he  would  have 
been  overboard  more  than  once.  I 
wrote  in  answer  to  his  letter  to  say 
that  I  considered  the  price  I  had 
fixed  very  low,  but  that  as  he  had 
oflfered.  a  sum  still  smaller,  our 
simplest  plan  would  ha  to  split  the 
difference.  His  reply  appeared  to 
me  somewhat  evasive  ;  he  agreed  to 
the  terms,  but  did  not  wish  to  com- 
plete the  purchase  for  six  months. 
The  letter,  of  which  this  was  the 
purport,  happened  to  be  dated  from 
the  house  of  one  of  my  old  college 
friends,  so  I  wrote  to  make  a  few 
inquiries  about  this  somewhat  in- 
comprehensible customer.  I  found 
that  he  was  a  man  of  good  social 
standing,  but  that  he  was  negotia- 
ting with  me  under  a  false  name, 
and  it  was  generally  supposed  that 
his  affairs  were  a  little  embarrassed. 
By  the  next  post  I  received  a  note 
from  him  begging  to  be  allowed  to 
withdraw  his  otier  altogether,  a 
request  to  which,  as  it  may  be 
imagined,  I  made  little  difficulty  in 
consenting. 

By  degrees  T  became  tired  of  carry- 
ing on  fruitless  negotiations,  and, 
indeed,  I  soon  had  no  farther  means 
of  proceeding.  I  had  advertised  so 
long  in  'Bfcll's  Life,'  that  every 
reader  of  it  who  required  a  yacht 
must  have  seen  that  mine  was  for 
sale,  and  I  knew  that  it  would  be 
useless  to  try  the  '  Times,'  or  any 
other  medium.  The  season  was  now 
advancing,  and  it  was  necessary  for 
me  to  commence  the  more  agreeable 
business  of  purchasing,  unless  I  was 
prepared  to  lose  it,  or  to  content 
myself  with  a  craft  refused  by  earlier 
birds.  So  I  placed  the  Zephyrina 
on  an  agent's  books,  and  according 
to  his  advice,  had  her  moved  to  the 
West  India  Docks,  as  he  considered 
it  indispensable  that  she  should  be 


within  easy  reach  of  London.  I  had 
also  to  engage  a  shii)kccpcr  to  take 
charge  of  her,  as  1  was  obliged  to 
employ  Brown  in  my  search  for  ano- 
ther vessel. 

On  turning  my  attention  in  the 
other  direction  1  ibund  that  my  task 
was  not  so  easy  as  I  had  anticipated. 
There  were  few  yachts  in  the  mar- 
ket of  the  size  1  required,  and  al- 
though I  had  extended  my  limits, 
their  prices  were  still  beyond  me. 
Brown  rejected  narrow  vessels  as 
not  suitable  for  '  pleasuring,'  either 
with  regard  to  safety  or  accommo- 
dation, and  iron  craft  he  considered 
objectionable,  as  never  being  per- 
fectly dry  inside,  and  requiring 
to  have  their  bottoms  constantly 
cleaned.  The  proposal  which  ap- 
peared, under  the  circumstances, 
most  eligible  came  from  an  agent, 
who  offered  to  take  the  Zephyrina 
in  part  payment;  but  the  price 
of  his  yacht  appeared  exorbitantly 
high,  and  on  my  inquiring  what 
allowance  he  intended  to  make  for 
mine,  he  informed  me  that  after  I 
had  paid  him  for  the  one  he  had 
to  sell,  he  would  put  mine  up  to 
auction,  and  refund  me  whatever 
she  realised.  Of  course  the  only 
effect  this  proposition  had  upon  me 
was  to  suggest  another  means  of 
disposing  of  my  vessel.  I  proceeded 
forthwith  to  one  of  the  principal 
shipping  auctioneers  and  requested 
him  to  put  her  up  for  sale.  He 
asked  for  permission  to  print  hand- 
bills and  advertise,  which  I  readily 
granted,  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of 
recovering  even  a  small  amount. 
The  day  was  fixed,  and  I  repaired 
to  the  appointed  place  to  witness 
the  competition,  but  was  somewhat 
surprised  at  being  ushered  on  my 
arrival  into  a  large  gloomy  hall  con- 
taining a  dozen  small  tables,  at  two 
of  which  four  or  five  weather-beaten 
mariners  were  having  their  lunch 
or  sipping  their  'grog.'  I  seated 
myself  in  this  desolate  apartment, 
wondering  when  the  bidders  would 
arrive  and  the  business  commence, 
but  to  my  dismay  no  person  came 
in  but  the  auctioneer,  who  marched 
up  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
and  began  to  read  out  a  long  cata- 
logue of  vessels.  Most  of  them  were 
wrecks,  and  were   disposed  of  at 


440 


Jlfr.  Fairwcatha-^s  Yachting, 


nominal  sums  to  tlio  Innchcrs.  At 
leup;tli  tlio  Zopliyriiia  was  put  up, 
and  the  nuctioneer  f^n'^c  a  very  nou- 
rishing ft'Tount  of  Iior,  and  pre- 
sently nniioimce<l  a  bidding  of 
seventy  {wumis,  and  foou  after  an- 
other of  ei^;hty,  ami  so  on  up  to  a 
liundrtd.  At  tliis  point  he  stopped, 
an(K  notwitlistiuuiing  all  my  nods 
hn<l  signs  to  let  lur  go,  ol'scrved 
that  as  there  was  no  liigher  otTer  ho 
should  jia.'-s  the  lot.  I  felt  naturally 
indignnnt  at  such  conduct,  and  the 
moment  I'Usiness  wa'?  over  made  my 
way  up  to  liiin  and  demaiidLd  why 
he  refused  the  hundred  pounds,  as, 
altliough  it  was  a  miseraMy  small 
price,  I  would  have  been  willing  to 
take  it.  lie  replied  that  there  had 
l)een  no  real  bidders,  anel  that  the 
contest  lie  had  carried  on  so  warmly 
was  only  between  imaginary  com- 
petitors. Here  then  I  was  no  further 
advanced  than  before,  and  seven 
pounds  out  of  pocket. 

Things  now,  willi  regard  to  the 
Zephyriiia,  began  to  settle  into  a 
chronic  state.  I  occaf-ionally  in- 
serted an  adveiti.=ement,  but  no  re- 
sult followed  except  in  one  or  two 
ca.ses  a  letter  stating  that  the  writer 
had  been  unatilo  to  get  on  board  or 
view  the  yacht.  These  complaints 
implied  that  the  shipkeeper  was  not 
performing  his  duty,  and  led  to  my 
vi.siting  tl:e  docks  to  satisfy  myself 
on  the  sul>ject.  I  think  that  I  may 
safely  a.'-sert  tliat  the  West  Jndia 
I)e)ck8  is  the  sweetest  spot  about 
London,  for  the  hogsheads  of  sugar 
are  so  numerous  there  that  the 
ejuays  arc  almost  impassable,  and 
the  pavement  is  so  thickly  bestrewn 
with  the  rich  commodity  that,  in 
wet  weath(  r,  such  as  that  in  which 
I  then  paid  my  vi>it,  it  is  very 
diflicult  to  avoid  slipping  down 
into  Ihe.s.'.rrliarinc  slush.  I  had  to 
wait  for  a  '  Comjany '  boat,  in  which 
I  eml>arl<ed  \\iih  a  dozen  navvies 
lx)und  for  ditfinnt  vcsels,  and 
having  at  icnglh  gained  tho  Ze- 
phyrina,  found  everything  locked 
up  and  the  hhipkieper  at»sent.  A 
man  in  a  \e-sel  alongside  told  mo 
that  he  was  just  gone  to  tea  with  a 
friend  from  the  country,  but  this 
wan  not  very  ^atisfactory,  and  I  rc- 
K<dved  to  try  u  few  (bus  later  whether 
that  friend  was  still  with  him.     On 


this  occasion  T  had  to  ferry  myself 
over  in  an  unmaiiugeal>lo  boat,  like 
an  old  barge,  and,  iking  unaccus- 
tomed to  such  craft,  narrow  ly  escajx;d 
falling  overi)oard  info  the  reeking 
pool.  The  shipkeeper  was  again 
absent,  and  I  made  n)y  way,  much 
incensed,  to  tho  recreant's  hou.so  to 
upbrai<l  him  for  his  neglect,  but 
before  I  had  time  to  commence,  ho 
expressed  his  liappiiiesa  at  my 
arrival,  as  ho  had  been  for  some 
time  desirous  Oi  resigning  his  situa- 
tion. Of  coui.'c  I  at  once  relieved 
him  of  his  charge,  but  was  obliged 
to  engage  anollier  man  at  an  in- 
creased salary. 

I  heard  nothing  more  of  her  for 
two  months.  Tliero  she  lay,  as 
many  of  her  fcx  had  done  before, 
neglected  and  forgotten,  while  a 
more  attractive  rival  had  usurped 
her  place.  I  could  not  even  bear 
to  hear  her  mentioned,  for  I  never 
coulel  thiidf  of  her,  nor  indeed  of 
any  ship,  as  a  mere  inanimate  thing, 
without  sense  or  feeling.  There 
is  something  in  the  form  and  in  the 
fortunes  of  a  dauphter  of  the  seas, 
anel  in  the  danpt  rs  and  dillieult-ies 
she  has  to  contend  with,  that  seems 
to  give  her  a  life  and  personal ity. 

The  next  time  I  heard  of  her  it 
was  from  an  old  sia-e-aptain,  who 
had  been  to  inspect  her,  and  i)rought 
the  unwelcome  intelligence  that  he 
had  found  the  rain  pouring  through 
her  decks,  tlio  ealans  alive  with  rats, 
and  everytiiing  ab  >\\i  her  fast  fall- 
ing to  decay.  \Vliat  was  I  to  do? 
NVas  1  to  spend  a  considerable  sum 
in  keeping  a  vc-sel  in  repair  which 
was  of  no  use  to  me,  and  for  which 
I  coulil  not  obtain  a  sixpence  V 
'No!'  I  replied— I  felt  like  a  mur- 
derer— '  1  will  destroy  her,  break 
her  up;  her  materials  will  bring 
something.' 

'  Break  her  up,  sir?  You'll  find 
that  a  very  ex]iensivo  undertaking, 
with  wages  at  six  shillings  a  day — 
very  serious  thing,  sir.' 

'(Jonfound  it  all,  then!'  I  ex- 
claimed, impatiently;  'I'll — I'll  sink 
her.' 

'Sink  her,  sir?  You  would  1)0 
liable  to  prosecution  by  tho  Thames 
Conservancy.' 

'Well,  then,'  I  persisted,  reck- 
lessly, '  I'll  burn  her.' 


Tlie  Playgrounds  of  Europe, 


441 


'Burn  her,  sir?'  ho  replied,  in 
horror,  '  jou  would  not  bo  allowed 
to  do  that;  you  might  set  some 
other  sliij)  on  tire.' 

'  Wliat,  then,'  I  demanded, fiercely, 
'is  it  Ihat  I  and  my  descendants  are 
bound  ahva.vs  to  pay  a  man  to  live 
in  this  vefsel,  and  aro  to  keep  her 
in  repair  for  ever  ?  Have  I  saddled 
myself  with  a  i)eipetual  annuity? 
A  man  should  tliiuk  well  before  ho 
buys  a  yacht!' 

'Well,  sir,'  ho  returned,  after 
some  reflection,  '  I  think  that  I  have 
a  friend  who  would  give  something 


for  her;  and  although  it  may  not 
be  much,  pcrha|is  it  will  be  your 
best  way  to  take  it,  and  rid  yourself 
of  further  liubilitiis.' 

And  so  I  did.  I  dispoi^ed  of  her 
to  this  'friend'  for  next  to  nothing, 
and  I  understand  he  has  been  exe- 
crating mo  ever  since  for  selling  him 
such  a  bad  bargain.  Slic  proved 
to  bo  twenty- two  .uars  old,  and  to 
have  been  lengtiitned  by  the  bow. 
Her  timbers  were  rotten,  her  mast 
sprung,  and  the  peculiar  cut  of  her 
mainsail  was  owing  to  its  having 
belonged  to  another  vessel. 


THE  PLAYGEOUNDS  OF  EUEOPE. 


NUMBERS  of  our  fellow-country- 
men, multitudes  of  our  fellow- 
Europeans,  a  few  perhaps  of  our 
fellow- Americans,  are  migrating  to- 
wards '  the  sweet  South,'  if  they  have 
not  already  arrived  there.  I  too  have 
been  in  the  South  in  my  youth,  and 
I  have  been  there  in,  say,  my  ma- 
turity. 

But  how  immense  the  difference 
in  the  means  of  gctliug  there,  and 
how  slight  the  change  in  what  you 
see  when  you  get  there !  I  am  not 
speaking  of  mere  ]i()]itical  scene- 
shiftings-of  Nice  and  Mentone  an- 
nexed to  France — of  liberated  Venetia 
and  United  Italy— questions  for  tax- 
gatherers,  diplomatic  agents,  and 
foreign  secretaries— but  of  the  gene- 
ral aspect  of  a  country,  the  natural 
history  of  its  inhabitants  and  their 
ways.  Some  grand  social  regenera- 
tion may  be  coming  over  Italy ;  but 
it  is  not  come  yet.  The  same  sights 
strike  your  eye,  the  same  smells 
meet  your  nose. 

How  delightful  to  find  the  first 
.drops  from  a  bottle— or  still  more 
sarely  from  a  fla^k— of  wine  cleverly 
dashed  out  upon  the  floor,  exactly 
as  they  were  thirty  and  probably 
three  thousand  years  ago — a  libation 
to  the  household  gois,  and  a  protest 
against  northern  housemaids'  neat- 
ness! A  genuine  Italian  cameriere 
has  a  soul  above  sawdust,  sand,  or 
soap.  What  is  a  floor  made  for  but 
to  receive  and  keep  what  falls  upon 


it,  without  the  intervention  of  any 
foreign  substance?  How  refreshing 
to  be  again  met  at  every  turn  with 
entreaties  for  charity,  fur  the  love  of 
God!  Italy  has  Udt  yet  forgotten 
either  the  way  to  hold  cut  her  hand 
or  to  ask  for  more.  It  would  be  a 
curious  statistical  problem  to  ascer- 
tain how  many  of  Victor  Emma- 
nuel's subjects  aie  beggars.  Cynics 
aver  that  nine  out  of  every  ten  are 
such. 

Beggary  is  a  southern  institution, 
which  is  only  restrained  within  fron- 
tier bounds.  The  new  line  which 
separates  France  from  Italy  is  a 
purely  artificial  limit.  It  is  marked 
by  a  couple  of  posts  on  each  side  of 
the  road,  one  of  which  bears  the 
warning  notice,  '  iMendicity  is  for- 
bidden in  the  Departement  of  the 
Maritime  Alps.'  A  recent  traveller 
saw  two  Italian  beggars,  one  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  each  post,  just 
within  the  territory  where  they  had 
the  right  to  beg,  ready  to  attack  the 
wayfarer  immediately  he  set  foot  in 
their  country.  The  spirit  with 
which  they  asserted  their  ancient 
privilege  received,  as  it  deserved, 
substantial  alms. 

The  same  traveller,  in  a  public 
garden  at  Milan,  accidentally  let 
fall  a  few  pieces  of  money.  A  well- 
dressed  passenger  in  a  white  cravat 
picked  them  up,  restored  them  to 
their  ow'ner,  and  then  held  out  his 
hand  for  a  charitable  contribution. 


442 


The  Playijrounds  of  Europe. 


It  was  considered  a  pood  lesson  of 
sclf-rcspei't  to  take  liis  linnd  and 
shake  it  instead  i)f  tii>i)inj:  it.  Ho 
BUiiled  at  the  frioiidly  act  but  did 
not  blush.  Evidintly  ho  would 
have  preferred  a  less  ceremonious 
form  of  aoknouk'dLrment.  It  will 
require  a  hard  ])usli  and  a  consider- 
able lapse  of  time  to  bring  the  South 
up  to  the  mark  of  the  North,  it 
bt>ing  simply  lifty  years  behindhand. 
Take  Genoa,  for  instance,  a  busy 
place  which  it  is  the  custom  to  a<I- 
mirc ;  and  it  is  diflicult  to  look  at  it 
without  admiration,  as  a  monument 
of  olden  time.  Cut  instead  of  call- 
ing it  Genoa  the  Supcrl),  we  might 
stylo  it  Genoa  the  OUsoleto.  Its 
palaces  belong  to  bygone  days  as 
completely  as  the  Pyramids  of  Egjpt. 
They  try  hard  to  conform  to  modern 
wants  and  us^ages.  and  cannot.  A 
city  of  eight-storied  palaces  without 
lilts  is  not  in  unison  with  the  latter 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Genoa  is  a  collection  of  edificial 
anti'|uities,  in  which  ga.s,  in  enor- 
mous mediasval  lanterns,  is  an  in- 
consi.'itency  and  an  incongruity ; 
while  railways  aro  ab.solute  nui- 
sances, rendei  ing  narrow  streets  still 
narrower,  and  stopping  the  circula- 
tion of  man  and  beast  by  their  noisy 
rushitigs  to  and  (ro.  As  the  anuuo- 
nito  it.'^if  has  vanished,  although 
casts  of  its  fossil  shell  remain,  so 
the  princely  builders  of  Genoa  aro 
cither  extinct  or  arc  shadows  merely 
of  their  ancestors. 

Out  of  such  palaces  you  make 
hotels;  and  what  is  the  consequence? 
To  get  a  bedroom  you  have  to 
mount  perhai'S  a  hundred  steps  (tho 
Hotel  Feder  has  some  at  an  altitude 
of  one  hundred  and  forty  steps) ;  or, 
if  your  bedroom  is  at  a  lower  level, 
you  aro  comp(l!e<l  to  climb  to  tho 
dining-room,  and  lift.s,  I  repeat,  aro 
thi^^;3  unknown.  At  tho  Uutel  do 
la  Vdle  the  dining-room  is— my  me- 
mory will  not  Ikj  nnswerablo  for 
lial fa- dozen  or  so,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  it  cxaggerat&s  — sorao 
ninoty-ninp  Rtei>.s  abovo  the  street. 
Tho  r(x>in  it.sclf-too  magniliront, 
too  va«t— lias  a  loftier  ceiling  than 
many  a  church.  After  dusk,  al- 
thoiigh  you  eat  your  frKxl  by  tho 
aid  of  lamps  on  the  tablo  and  a  gas- 
U^ht  overhead,  tho    hall    itself  is 


darkness  visible.  And,  not  from  the 
cornice,  but  from  .something  more 
than  half-way  belo\\  it,  is  susjit-nded 
a  bell-i)ull — a  l>ell-pull  in  middle- 
age  Genoa!  Why  not  a  knocker  at 
tlio  enti'anco  to  tlic  Coloseum  at 
Rome?  The  onlv  Avny  to  modernise 
such  cities  as  Genoa,  as  far  as  its 
matrriil  conlition  is  c<)n<'erned,  is 
to  do  as  has  beindone  at  Kdiiil)urgh 
and  olsew  hero— build  a  new  town 
beside  the  old  one.  Tho  montl  pro- 
(jress  of  tho  peojilc  must  depend  on 
the  result  of  tho  struggle  now  going 
on  between  the  powers  of  light  and 
darkness  throughout  tho  whole 
length  and  br<  adlh  of  the  land. 

At  Turin,  till  lately  the  capital  of 
the  foremost  sovereign  of  Italy,  illu- 
minated by  tlio  highest  iutelligences, 
wo  find  ins'alltd  La  Siunambula 
Ida,  who  gives  (no  doubt  for  as 
much  as  they  aro  worth,  although 
she  may  not  earn  quite  so  much  as 
Miss  Putti  Sonnambula)  ('ousnlta- 
zionc  ill  MiKjnUUino,  announcing  tho 
fact  all  over  the  town  by  notices 
bearing  a  postage-stamp,  like  all 
other  bills,  placards,  and  announce- 
ments, whether  luauu'^cript  or  not, 
oven  the  playbill  posted  to  tho 
walls,  down  to  'Apartments  to  let, 
inquire  witiu'n;'  for  Italy  wants 
revenue,  and  would  erect  a  statue 
to  any  Chancellor  of  the  Excheijuer 
who  could  invent  a  new  tax  and 
gather  it,  without  people's  feeling 
it,  or  grumbling  if  they  felt  it.  Italy, 
however,  may  be  i)ar(l(med  a  littlo 
credulity  and  suj)erstition  if,  as  is 
asserted  on  good  authority,  the  daily 
receipt  of  the  rrenct)  railways  falls 
ofif  considerably  on  Fridays! 

Turin  is  prol)ably  the  most  regu- 
larly built  of  Italian  towns.  Every- 
thing there  except  the  Po  (which 
will  flow  on  its  own  perverse  cir- 
cumbendibus way,  and  is  only  made 
navigable  for  boats  by  barrages 
acros.s  the  stream  at  short  distances) 
is  rectilinear  and  rectanguiar.  This 
extreme  regularity  gives  a  marked 
physiognomy  to  the  /o"v»,  l)\it  it 
dei)rives  the  Mmts  of  their  iu<livi- 
dual  physiognomy;  while  in  sti-ects 
with  arcades  on  each  side  of  them 
tho  hoHsis  have  no  i)hysiognomy  at 
all.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  mis- 
take, or  to  fail  to  recognise  any 
given  house.  » 


The  Playgrounds  of  Europe. 


443 


Tlio  houses  of  Turin  arc  lofty, 
most  of  them  being  five  stories  high, 
besides  entresols  and  otlier  inter- 
stices, which  is  imi)osing  but  incon- 
venient. In  the  liotcls,  for  a  mode- 
rate-priced room,  you  will  have  to 
mount  at  least  to  the  tbird  story 
(pi(ino).  Mine  was  reached  by  only 
eighty -nine  steps.  All  over  the 
town  is  an  overflow  of  photography ; 
and  to  arrive  at  a  photographer's 
laboratory  you  must  climb  to  the 
fourth  or  fifth.  In  houses  inhabited 
by  different  families  you  may  find 
a  hen  taking  her  walks  and  enjoying 
the  air  from  the  elevation  of  the 
third  outside  gallery,  and  dahlias 
in  boxes  flowering  on  the  roof.  All 
the  shops  are  dark  and  dingy,  many 
looking  as  if  the  inmates  slept  under 
the  counter  or  on  the  shelves.  The 
smartest  and  bcst-farnished  are 
under  the  arcades  which  encircle 
the  Piazza  di  Castello- 

Where  do  the  poor  contrive  to 
find  a  habitation  in  these  palatial 
blocks  of  buildings?  Some  are 
forced  up  to  the  chimney-tops  by 
the  pressure  of  their  wealthier  fel- 
low-townsmen ;  others  are  sent  out 
to  the  faubourgs  to  lodge.  Still, 
these  vast  edifices  contain  nooks 
and  crannies  in  which  small  folk, 
like  the  rats  and  the  mice,  manage 
to  hide  their  heads  and  even  to 
malte  merry.  Asking  for  a  glass  of 
wine  at  a  humble  shop  where  work- 
ing men  were  frolicking  and  feast- 
ing, I  was  shown  ujDstairs  to  a  suite 
of  little  chambers,  such  as  might  be 
stolen  from  between  floors  and  ceil- 
ings, beneath  balks  and  joists,  under 
gable-ends  and  corners.  Human 
insects  had  wormed  their  hidden 
way  into  the  interstices  of  aristo- 
cratic mansions. 

In  Genoa  it  is  different,  so  far  as 
that,  there,  the  labouring  world  has 
an  openly-assigned  habitat.  The 
steep,  narrow,  dark,  straight,  and 
house-bound  vico,  or  lane,  swarms 
with  life,  which  may  neither  be  very 
unhappy  nor  unhealthy  in  a  climate 
where,  for  months  together,  shade 
and  gloom  are  luxuries. 

Turin  streets  are  primitively  paved 
with  water-worn  pebbles  from  the 
river's  bed  ;  but  the  central  road  has 
a  double  row  of  flagstone  rails  for 
tho  wheels  of  carriages  going  up 


and  down  in  contrary  directions, 
enabling  at  least  tho  omnibuses  to 
drag  enormous  loads.  As  to  gar- 
dens, you  are  not  yet  conic  to  the 
glorious  evergreens  of  Florence  or 
the  orange-trees  and  palms  of  tho 
Mediterranean  coast,  while  you  have 
left  behind  you  the  trim  and  luxu- 
riant ijarterres  of  Paris.  There  is  a 
piece  of  ground  covered  with  patches 
of  ordinary  shrubs  (snowl)eriiesand 
other  like  rarities)  badly  planted,  in 
wretched  health.  You  are  prayed 
not  to  walk  upon  the  grass,  but  you 
ask  where  the  grass  is  to  Avalk  upon, 
as  you  cannot  mistake  for  it  plan- 
tains and  weeds.  You  arc  requested 
not  to  touch  anything,  but  you  may 
inquire  where  there  is  anything  that 
anybody  would  think  of  touching. 

Pedestrian  travel  is  much  less 
understood  south  of  the  Alps  than 
amidst  them  and  north  of  them. 
The  natives  seem  to  consider  that 
the  man  who  goes  on  foot,  however 
decent  in  his  appearance  and  prompt 
and  just  in  his  expenditure,  can,  at 
bottom,  be  no  other  than  a  member 
of  the  grand  'Tramp'  family,  or  at 
best  an  offshoot  of  the  'Pedlar' 
branch.  To  travel  on  foot,  in  the 
South,  without  annoyance,  your 
papers  had  best  be  forthcoming  and 
en  rcf/Ie,  and  even  that  is  not  always 
sufficient  to  avert  suspicion  and 
sidelong  glances,  particularly  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  a  frontier  line. 
'Who  would  go  on  foot,'  they  think, 
if  they  do  not  say, '  who  could  go  in 
any  other  way?'  Therefore,  it  is 
believed  there  must  be  some  mo- 
tive, some  reason  for  concealment, 
some  desire  to  sneak  away  stealthily 
under  the  cover  of  by-paths  and  un- 
frequented hours  of  the  day,  some 
avoidance  of  the  numberless  honest 
native  folk  who  wouldn't  walk  a 
mile  unless  to  save  their  lives.  On 
foot!  Amidst  worshippers  of  the 
dolce  far  niente,  indulgers  in  noon- 
day napping,  starvers  six  days  in 
the  week  for  the  sake  of  a  drive  on 
the  seventh !  No,  indeed !  Footing 
it  may  do  very  well  for  people  in 
training  for  travaux  forces,  or  for 
gentlemen  indifferent  to  penal  servi- 
tude ;  but  it  is  only  a  cause  of  won- 
der in  latitudes  where,  at  certain 
seasons  and  hours  of  the  day,  none 


441 


The  Playgroun'h  of  Europe. 


but  dogs  and  Englishmen  aro  to  bo 
scon  abroad. 

Kail  way  projccls,  now  in  cxccu- 
licn,  will,  wluii  compklcd,  periiiit 
tho  accoiup'ifilinuiit  of  snn  iry  plea- 
sant and  itivitii  ^  trips,  in  about  as 
many  days  as,  tlirly  years  ago,  it 
was  customary  to  tinploy  weeks  in 
roni])letii  g  them.  Tortinns  of  tho 
Medifirraiioan  const  can  now  be  got 
at  and  skirted  by  rail ;  Italy  can  bo 
appioiclied  to  witliin  an  inconsider- 
able dislancc  by  rail ;  and  in  Italy 
itself  there  aro  railways  which  aro 
and  will  be  on  the  increase.  True, 
you  do  not  sec  .'o  much  by  rail  as 
you  did  wliiio  po.tling,  or  even  by 
diligtncc;  pi  r  contra,  you  nro  EO 
much  less  time  about  it,  and  you  do 
see  places  which,  in  old  times,  busy 
people  had  httio  chance  of  visiting 
at  all. 

Still,  there  is  enough  variety  on 
the  marvellous  lail  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  keep  your  ryes  open— un- 
less, a.s  on  some  lines  southward, 
everything  is  shut  out  by  envious 
acacia  hedges. 

Thus,  you  change  railways  for 
clicmiiis-d'-fir,  after  cro.«sing  a 
herring-pond  called  the  English 
Channel;  and  you  quit  tlmn,  by 
traversing  a  respectable  range  of 
rock,  for  sfrri'/c  fi  rrnd-  u.\)d/<  rrovir. 
And  tho  change  involves  Forae- 
thing  more  than  a  mere  alteration  of 
name. 

You  test  the  qualities  of  multi- 
farious beds,  by  measuring  your 
length  in  tliem  night  after  night. 
There  aro  springy  leds  and  non- 
ela'-tic  beils ;  beds  of  wool  and  horse- 
hair; Itcds  of  soxwccd  (zostera)  and 
straw;  beds  of  inilian-corn  husks; 
liigh  beds  requiring  a  la'lder  to 
reach  them,  low  beds  on  which  you 
cannot  sit  without  getting  cramp  in 
your  back ;  sbake-down  beds  and 
bcdn  in  aloves ;  narrow  l)cd-?  not 
wide  enough  for  one,  and  broaxl 
beds  in  which  three  might  jia.ss  tho 
nigiit ;  feather  lK.ds  under  you,  and 
eiuer-down  Uds  over  you  ; — every 
bed,  except  the  be-curtaincd,  be- 
canopied  lour-iiost  bed  you  left  at 
home. 

Then  thrro  arc  your  travelling 
companions,  in  r.iihvay-carrince  and 
ot  tft'pk'-d'hoto.  There  is  the  Trench 
lady,  with  haneisomc  grey  hair  and 


a  turquoise  ring,  who  travels  with 
two  tall  daughters  and  a  tiny  lap- 
dog.  There  aro  people  who  travel 
with  birds ;  with  I'a  kets  as  big  as 
Noah's  arks ;  with  plants  in  pots, 
of  slight  money  value,  but  doubt- 
k'ss  rich  in  recollections.  There  is 
the  stout  burly  man,  with  dirty 
hands  and  a  ruby  jing  set  round 
with  diamonds,  who  abuses  French 
railways,  liohling  up  for  tho 
Prussian;  who  bullies  the  oflicials 
if  anything  goes  wrong  on  tlicir 
parts,  telling  them  truly  that  tho 
railway  lias  no  mercy  if  a pusscwjcr 
commits  the  sliglitcst  error. 

Tl  ere  is  the  diner  who  sulks  at 
his  dinner,  compl-.iins  to  the  waiter, 
and  won't  eat  it,  allhonph  ho  pays 
for  it  all  the  same.  There  is  tho 
little  Frencii  la'iy,  eleven  years  of 
age  (more  at  homo  at  the  table- 
d'hote  than  she  would  bo  in  her 
nursery),  who  docs  quite  tho  con- 
trary, helpiui^  herself  to  wino  into 
which  her  papa  prudently  da.shes 
water,  and  '  going  into'  every  dish 
as  it  comes  rounel  to  her  with  a 
resolution  worthy  of  a  nobler  cause. 

Then  there  are  tlie  unaccustomed 
eatables,  the  foreign  viamis,  the  novel 
me.=.ses,  to  bo  ta-te'dand  tried.  IJreacl 
miidc  with  leaven  instead  of  yeast ; 
barbel,  highly  prized,  and  jiiko 
elevated  to  the  rank  of  a  danty 
dish ;  log  of  mutton,  not  sauced 
with  currant  jelly,  but  seasoned 
with  a  clove  of  gnrlic;  cscargots, 
or  snails  in  the  shell ;  grivs  nu 
rjltiii-vrc  (Mont  Cenis),  thrushes 
whoso  natural  flavour  is  improved 
by  feeding  on  tho  berries  of  the 
juniper  bush.  Foolish  thrushes,  not 
to  abstain  from  everything  ajijicr- 
taiuing  to  gin!  Foolisii  gtnu'inands, 
not  to  abstain  from  thrushes  which 
devour  the  devourers  of  your  vines 
and  their  produce !  '  Monsieur  does 
not  like  little  birds!'  when  a  dozen 
cock  robins  on  a  spit  arc  brought 
me,  is  ultered  by  llie  garcon  with 
the  same  wonderment  as  a  London 
dining-rooms  waiter  woulel  exclaim, 
'  Tho  gent  does  not  like  a  cut  of 
the  haunch!— tho  gent  dexis  not 
like  a  mealy  potato!'  No,  I  don't 
like  them  (the  dickey-birds).  Tako 
thern  away. 

There  is  tho  landlord  who  esti- 
mates you  by  your  luggage.  Trunks, 


The  Playgrounds  of  Europe. 


415 


with  him,  arc  the  test  of  merit ; 
yoiiv  virtues  lie  in  yonr  baygago 
and  boxes.  With  six  large  port- 
manteaus, you  will  get  a  first-floor 
lodging;  with  five  of  moderate  size, 
you  may  have  to  mount  no  higher 
than  thescconrl ;  with  four  or  three, 
you  may  possibly  gain  admittance 
to  the  tliird  or  fourtli ;  while  with 
one  little  one,  in  the  height  of  the 
season,  you  m;iy  possibly  have  to 
sleep  in  the  street. 

There  is  tlie  'cuter  landlord  who 
apprifcs  your  wortli  by  the  portable 
property  wbich  adorns  your  jicrson. 
With  the  keen  glaucc  of  a  pawn- 
broker he  reckons  up,  '  Watch- 
chain,  so  much  ;  stock-pin,  so  much ; 
rings,  so  much;  studs,  so  much; 
decoration  (if  any),  so  much  ;  total, 
so  much.  I  think  I  may  take  him 
in.'  And  there  is  the  hotel-keeper 
who,  having  received  you  as  a 
squeezable  consignment,  coolly  in- 
sists on  pnssing  you  on  to  another 
of  the  fraternity  with  whom  an 
understanding  exists.  It  is  an 
exchange  of  prisoners,  on  terms 
settled  beforehand.  They  may  keep 
between  thein,  for  aught  I  know, 
a  debtor  and  creditor  account  of 
guests  delivered  and  received.  Your 
itinerary  is  made  out  for  you  ;  you 
are  sent  away  in  charge  of  your 
driver,  very  much  like  a  lamb  driven 
off  to  be  shorn,  after  undergoing  a 
searching  interrogatory — 

'  Monsieur  is  going  next  to ?* 

'  Bellolido;  wlicre  I  intend  sleep- 
ing at  the  Albergo  del  Sole.' 

'  Monsieur  cannot  do  that.  He 
will  rather  push  on  to  Cattivo- 
monte,  and  descend  at  the  Hotel  des 
Ecorcheurs.' 

♦  I  imifit  stop  at  Bellolido.  I  ex- 
pect letters  at  the  Poste  Eestante 
there.' 

'  At  lenst  Monsieur  cannot  go  to 
the  Alliergo  del  Sole.  Low  people, 
bad  kitchen,  dirty  beds.  Nobody 
of  Monsieur's  ratnk  ever  goes  there  ; 
nothing  but  pig-jobliers,  pedlars, 
and  calf-merchants.  Luckily  there 
is  also  at  Bellolido  an  excellent 
Hotel  des  Ecorcheurs.  Monsieur 
has  only  to  present  this  card — "  Par- 
ticularly recommended  by  Louis 
Leloup  to  the  distinguished  atten- 
tion of  Ludwig  Derwolf."  Guiseppe, 
you  will  take  good  care  to  conduct 


Monsieur  straight  to  the  Hotel  des 
Ecorcheurs.  Bon  voyage,  Monsieur. 
Servitore  umilissimo.' 

Guiseppe  knows  it  is  all  his  placo 
is  worth  to  allow  I\I(insieur  to  give 
him  the  slip.  Be  ides,  Guiseppe 
gets  his  own  little  pickings,  in  the 
shape  of  a  supper  and  the  regulation 
tip. 

There  is  the  waiter  who  persists 
in  calling  you  '  Milor,'  though  you 
tell  him  you  arc  no  more  a  Milor 
than  he  is.  How  can  you  travel  at 
your  ease,  he  thinks*,  and  live  at 
hotels, and  do  nothing  but  si;jlit-scG 
all  day  and  all  night  too,  unless  in- 
deed you  are  a  I\lilor?  There  is 
the  polyglot  courier,  who  does  not 
speak,  but  who  beantil'ully  breaks 
on  the  wheel  of  his  tongue  four  or 
five  different  languages,  his  own  in- 
cluded ;  for  the  Piedmontese  dialect 
is  to  pure  Italian,  what  French  of 
Stratford-le-Bow  is  to  French  of 
Paris,  only  separated,  if  anything, 
by  a  wider  interval. 

There  are  Savoyard  chresemakerK 
— a  railway  carriage  is  often  an  Ex- 
change, a  Conthill,  a  Bourse,  a 
place  of  business— b.irgaining  witii 
a  cheese-buyer,  as  hard  as  if  their 
very  lives  were  in  question.  You 
expect  they  arc  going  to  pitch  each 
other  out  of  the  window.  They  do 
no  such  thing.  Tal  k  of  comic  actors ! 
There  are  few  to  equal  these.  At 
the  next  station,  tluy  get  out,  all 
indignant.  Their  conscience  is 
shocked  ;  their  moral  sense  up^et. 
They  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
such  a  price!— nothing  whatever! 
They  depart;  they  return.  They 
haggle,  refuse,  frown,  •  turn  their 
backs,  and  again  go  away.  Tho 
train  is  in  motion  ;  they  come  and 
bang  on  to  it.  Just  before  danger- 
speed  is  attained,  they  conclude  the 
bargain,  with  smiles,  nods,  and 
friendly  hand-shakings. 

There  is  the  transition  between 
plain  and  mouutain,  the  unac- 
customed produce  of  the  land, tho 
pear-shaped  haystacks,  the  golden 
bunches  of  Indian  corn,  the  fes- 
tooned vines.  There  is  the  change 
of  costume,  the  contrast  of  races — 
the  high-coloured  French  com- 
plexion, tho  sallow  Savoyard,  tha 
cheese-faced  Swiss,  the  cleanly, 
fresh-looking  English  countenance. 


446 


The  r la '; grounds  of  Europe. 


Tlicro  nro  the  vcliiclos— witliout 
montiiiiiiiiL:  railway  oarrinfros,  of 
which  time  is  a  sufTn'if  nt  variety, 
botli  ill  their  iirraniiemciits  luid  their 
a'lmiiii>tr.iti.»n— from  the  mic-Iiorso 
pill-hox,  witli  a  little  bulTs-cyo  in 
the  harlc,  to  the  monster  thrcc- 
lx)dic(l  flilijjonce,  drawn  hy  Fcvcn 
horses,  four  al«reiist  in  front  (for  the 
purpose  of  niniiinp  over  naughty 
little  l)i\vs  and  girls,  and  linjipily 
dcspatcliinp:  halt  and  lame  old  nun 
and  women),  to  bo  increased  to 
twelve  wlun  the  mountain  steepens. 
Lord  I'atoman,  to  console  Lis  re- 
jected bride,  said — 

'  Slie  came  here  on  a  horse  and  pillion  ; 
She  hliall  go  home  in  a  coach  and  three' 

Mont  Cenis  would  tell  her — 

'She  carae  up  at  a  walk  with  a  dozen  (nngs) ; 
She  shall  go  down  at  a  gallop  with  t»o,' 

and  tliink  herself  lucky,  if  she  reach 
the  bottom  without  breaking  her 
neck.  7  prefer  walking  down  Jlont 
Ceuis,  unless  with  my  eyes  ban- 
daged, or  in  a  pitch-dark  night.  It 
(the  diligence)  is  a  moving  mass, 
some  twelve  yards  long  without 
the  additional  horses ;  lofty  out  of 
all  proj)ortion  to  its  length,  covered 
with  a  hlack  leather  coat  that  might 
have  been  the  shell  of  an  nntc- 
diluvian  armadillo,  and  resembling 
Polyphemus  in  having  for  its  eye 
one  big  lantern,  which  would  not 
disgrace  itself  if  it  had  to  do  duly 
as  a  lighthouse.  This  world  upon 
wheels,  with  its  population  and  their 
property,  pushes  before  it  downhill 
a  single  jiair  of  horses,  which  just 
serve  to  help  it  to  tuna  the  corners. 
Should  the  driver  have  a  sun- 
stroke, or  a  drop  too  much  ;  should 
it  upset,  tlicro  aro  posts  by  the 
roadside  which,  by  catching  a 
whe<.'I,  may  prevent  it  from  going 
over  the  prccii)ico.  Well,  say  what 
you  like,  I  <l<i  prefer  walking  down 
Mont  Cenis.  We  shall  whisk  through 
it  I'y  rail,  one  of  the.'-e  days.  The 
tunnel  is  half  done  already;  which 
is  even  better  than  '  well  Ijcgun.' 

Nor  must  we  forget  the  enormous 
differtnco  betwcdi  the  journey  out 
and  the  leturn  lioint-wards.  Hills 
which  appear  chaniiing  when  you 
entrr  or  approach  the  .Mjisjiave  lnit 
few  attractions  when  you  aro  leaving 
them.    Tlioro  comes  on  a  satiety  of 


tho  pictnresqno  and  tho  novel,  a«! 
surely  as  thtro  does  of  material 
feasting.  ICven  an  accident,  a  run- 
ning olV  the  rails,  and  a  good  sciatch- 
iug  in  an  acacia  hedge,  if  no  worse, 
is  regarded  less  as  a  romantic  stimu- 
lant than  an  xmtoward  delay  in 
your  reaching  home. 

But  we  arc  still  on  our  way  to- 
wards the  Simth,  and  may  glance, 
yet  untircd,  at  what  wo  see,  and  in- 
dulge in  a  brief  inquisitive  halt  or 
two.  As  you  may  judge  of  a  work- 
man by  his  cliijis,  .so  you  may  guess 
at  a  country  by  its  fuel.  At  I\Iacon 
(excellent  butTet  for  supi)iiig  or 
dining),  faggots  of  vino-lwigs  aro 
hawked  about  the  street.s,  to  light 
the  fires  and  make  tho  pot  boil. 
Fancy  larded  quails,  baided  with 
vine- leaves,  and  roasted  over  a  vine- 
wood  fire!  The  morning  milk-de- 
livery is  a  remnant  of  the  practice 
of  falconry.  Earthen  milkjjots,  co- 
vered with  round  pieces  of  wood, 
aro  carried  suspended  with  sticks, 
like  hooded  hawks— and  there  ter- 
minates all  analogy  between  the 
bland  fluid  and  the  bloodthirsty 
bird.  After  Amberitsux  station,  the 
villages  become  Italian  in  their  cha- 
racter. Convex-tiled,  ruddy-brown, 
slightly-sloping  roofs,  with  l>road- 
edgcd  eaves,  nestle  1  amidst  clumps 
of  chesnut  and  walnut  trees,  attest 
tho  relationship  of  Savoy  with  the 
peninsula.  Tho  incomplete  shelter 
and  imperfect  closing  alTorded  by 
tho  houses  and  their  doors  and 
windows,  arc  a  proof  of  the  warmth 
of  tho  climate  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  year. 

For  tho.so  who  have  never  seen  a 
lake,  and  even  for  tho.'^e  who  have, 
there  is  the  exquisitely  blue  Lac  do 
Bourget,  with  it.s  skirting  road  and 
occasional  tunnels  ;  the  emergence 
from  each  of  which  presents  you 
with  a  difTerent  picture  of  rock  and 
water,  and  the  vines  hang  garlands 
from  tree  to  tree.     ' 

Chamliery  is  a  toad  in  a  hole. 
At  its  inner  edge,  the  hole  may  be 
green  and  pleasant,  festooned  with 
grapes  and  bristling  with  maize; 
but  the  outer  wall  of  mountains  is 
so  lofty  and  rugged  as  to  i)lace  the 
town  in  a  very  cemstrainid  j)osition 
— cribbed,  cabined,  antl  confined 
in   a  rocky  prison.     It  is  a  place 


The  Playgrounds  of  Europe. 


447 


that  hnd  stood  still  for  scores  of 
years  past— until  tlio  railway  made 
one  change,  and  annexation  to 
France  another — with  two  or  three 
old,  grey,  respectable  streets,  and 
sundiy  winding,  narrow  lanes,  more 
Italian  than  French  in  the  cut  of 
their  jib.  The  dwellings  of  the 
lower  class  are  dark  and  dingy, 
with  earthen  floors  or  paved  with 
pebbles. 

French  is  the  language,  Eoman 
Catholicism  the  religion.  The  Sa- 
voyards appear  to  have  little  affinity 
with  the  Swiss,  by  whom  indeed 
they  are  despised.  A''ery  likely, 
absorption  by  their  great  neighbour 
may  turn  out  to  suit  them  in  the 
end.  One  of  the  most  surprising 
feats  of  railing,  is  that  fresh  oysters 
should  bo  offered  at  Chambery. 
During  the  reigns  of  the  Dukes  of 
Savoy,  Chambery  could  know  none 
but  fossil  oyster.!. 

The  great  point,  now,  for  the  tra- 
veller whose  leave  of  absence  (and 
perhaps  whose  travelling  purse)  is 
limited  is,  that  the  gaps  still  ex- 
isting in  the  iron  road  should  be 
filled  up  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  two  grand  ol)stacles  which 
rear  themselves  in  the  course  of 
our  steeple- chasing  after  southern 
sunshine,  have  been  stuck  in  our 
way  by  the  hand  of  Nature;  and 
we  cannot  take  them  at  a  leap,  as 
the  high-mettled  rider  clears  his 
brook,  his  hedge  and  ditch,  or  his 
dry  stone  wall.  For  a  time  we  roll 
onwards,  smoothly  enough,  and  at 
as  reasonaVile  expense  as  man  can 
hope  for,  with  little  or  no  interrup- 
tion or  privation  of  needful  repose 
and  ordinary  meals;  seeing  that  a 
person  who  cannot  breakfast  and 
lunch  in  a  railway  carriage  (or  even 
sup)  will  hardly  get  elected  by  the 
Eational  Tourists'  Club,  much  less 
by  the  Alpine. 

There  is  no  need  to  exchange  a 
good  night's  rest  in  bed  for  feverish 
slumbers  on  the  line ;  nor  do  I  re- 
commend the  sacrifice.  Man  makes 
locomotives  to  expedite  his  person 
with  greater  speed ;  but  he  is  not 
nimself  a  locomotive.  He  requires 
something  more  than  to  be  oiled,  and 
cleaned,  and  liberally  fed  with  coals 
and  water.  Jle  cannot,  like  his 
watch,  be  wound  up  in  half  a  minute. 


7//s  re-windings  up,  reparations, 
and  refittings  require  a  given  lups-o 
of  time  for  their  due  performance. 
To  get  interest  for  your  money,  you 
must  let  it  lie  quiet  for  a  while; 
and  if  you  draw  on  the  capital  of 
strength  which  is  lying  to  your 
credit  in  your  corporeal  bank  (by 
devoting  night  to  spending  instead 
of  accumulating  it),  your  balance 
will  be  so  much  diminished,  and 
will  have  to  be  made  up  for  by-and- 
by.  Therefore,  never  travel  all 
night, — if  you  can  help  it,  or  unless 
you  like  it  best. 

By  leaving  Boulogne-sur-Mer  at 
9  A.M.  and  sleeping  in  Paris;  leav- 
ing Paris  at  6"40,  sleeping  at  Macon ; 
and  leaving  Macon  at  5'io,  you 
reach  St.  Michel,  the  railway's  end, 
in  the  afternoon,  in  three  easy  days, 
passing  every  night  between  the 
sheets,  at  an  expense  of  79  fr.  55  c., 
second  class,  and  37  fr.  15  c.,  third 
class,  should  the  tourist  be  of  frugal 
mild — as  many  tourists  of  late 
have  the  hardihood  to  be.  The 
third-class  traveller  mitst  halt  at 
the  above-named  sleeping-places ; 
because,  were  he  to  jDush  on  to 
Montereau  (as  he  might,  by  leaving 
Boulogne  at  6  a.  m.),  the  direct  train 
(25)  by  which  he  leaves  Paris  will 
not  give  him  third-class  tickets  on- 
wards until  9-50,  to  reach  Macon 
so  uncomfortably  late  as  g'S3.  The 
second-class  passenger  may  lay  out 
his  stages  as  he  pleases,  sleeping  at 
Montereau,  if  he  will,  to  leave  it  at 
8"3  5  A.M.  It  is  needless  to  insist 
on  the  difference  between  being 
gifted  with  eyesight  by  day,  and 
being  blind  by  night,  while  skim- 
ming over  foreign  lands  of  such  im- 
portance and  interest  as  France  and 
Savoy. 

At  St.  Michel,  a  giant  steps  into 
^our  way,  demanding  a  toll— black- 
mail of  both  your  time  and  your 
money ;  which  latter  two  Mr.  Grove 
ought  to  include  in  his  next  dis- 
course on  Correlative  Forces.  The 
giant  is  of  lofty  stature,  very  square 
built,  hard-hearted,  of  unknown  age. 
His  head  is  covered  with  patches 
of  hoariuess.  He  is  considerably 
given  to  brawling;  and  when  he 
threatens,  it  is  unwise  to  despise 
his  threats,  for  they  arc  warnings  of 
coming  commotion  and  trouble.    To 


418 


The  Plai/gronnds  of  Europe. 


niovo  liiin  is  next  to  impossible; 
where  lie  lalces  Wi^k  st;in(l,  tliero  ho 
rciinins.  ]'iit  niitwitlistiiiidiiip;  the 
finimcss  of  his  clmiiu'ter,  he  is  in- 
cmaMy  ^'wcn  to  constant  weepinp, 
of  wliioh  intiristoil  iH.'oi)le  take  ad- 
vaiitaue,  tiirniiiK  his  own  weakness 
npaiii-t  hiinvelf  and  usin:  it  to  force 
(by  water  w.'ikcd  machinery),  di- 
rectly Ihrouj^h  anil  across  hi:^  do- 
mains, the  vtry  passage  which  ho 
refuses  to  grant.  Neveitlieless,  ho 
is  n  handsome  giant,  with  whom 
any  laily  mii,'lit  fall  in  love  without 
blushing.  If  npiiioachcd  at  proper 
times  and  .seasons,  no  ono  can  com- 
plain of  the  receptinn  ho  gives  them. 
He  is  not  devoid  <>f  ho-pitality,  and 
his  name  is  Mo.nt  Cenis. 

Before  tlie  final  ascent  of  I\Iont 
Cenis,  on  this  side,  is  a  village 
Lanslebouig,  which  thinks  no  small 
beer  of  itself.  In  cookery,  it  rivals 
Stoilare's  ]icrformanccs.  It  makes 
every  po.ssible  dish  out  of  mutton. 
Beef-soup,  mutton  -  broth,  calf's- 
head  (t  It  tortnr,  shecp's  trotters  in 
di>giiiso.  Fillet  of  beef— loin  of 
rautton,  boned.  Fine  -  flavoured 
venison— excellent  ram;  genuine 
chamois  —  tender  owe.  Roast 
slioulder  of  veal  (so  small  that  it 
must  have  l)cen  roasted  before  the 
calf  Avas  born),  eaten  with  reli.sh, 
because  we  recognize  it  ns  blade- 
bone  of  mutton,  only  wanting  tho 
kidney  l)cans  or  the  oiuon  sauce  to 
complete  the  identification.  Call's 
foot  jelly  — sheep's  foot  idem;  kid 
gloves— lamb- .>.k in  idem. 

At  la-st  the  blissful  moment  ar- 
rives when  you  enter  tlio  olive 
proves,  the  lorests  of  dreamland. 
Yo)i  have  reached  the  South.  You 
find  yourself  in  actuality  under  a 
fiky,  in  an  atmo^jihere,  and  amidst 
a  vegetation  which  you  had  seen 
faintly  in  pictures,  had  figured 
feebly  from  jxtetry,  or  caught  tran- 
sient gli(nI.se^  of  'Iwixt  sleep  and 
awake.  Tiiey  arc  colourless  trees, 
with  Khailowy  foliage;  looking,  in 
certain  bglit.«,  like  glittering  mas.ses 
of  micacious  )K)wder  suspended  by 
magic  in  the  air,  in  others  like  clus- 
tcrc<l  flakes  of  grejish  snow  hover- 
iug   by   attraction    about   tho  out 


stretched  bran 'lies.  Creyish,  not 
grey,  is  tho  lilting  epilliet ;  for  in- 
definite as  grey  is  ns  n  colour,  tho 
tint  of  olise  leaves,  hanging  on  tho 
freo,  is  still  hss  di  linalilo.  It  is 
neither  green,  while,  nor  brown,  but 
a  neutral  something,  a])pr()aching 
nearest  to  glaucous,  which  har- 
monises with  everything  contrasted 
to  it. 

Then,  yon  thinV  of  tho  eastern 
enigma,  '  What  is  tlic  tree,  all  whoso 
leaves  are  light  ou  oni!si<le  and  dark 
on  tho  other?'  and  decide  that  tho 
answer  might  a-!  well  and  justly  bo 
An  Olive  Tree,  as  The  Year. 

So  old  are  many  olive  trees,  that 
their  age  is  q\iite  ungucssa'>lo  ;  only 
you  are  sure  tliat  the  heads  of  tho 
great-great-grand falhcr.s  of  thoso 
who  planted  them  must  have  long 
since  ceased  to  aclic.  Their  aspect, 
as  compared  Aviih  other  cultivated 
trees,  is  that  of  S'oneheiipc  com- 
pared with  other  luiii.''.  They  are 
still  adolescent  when  other  trees  aro 
old.  At  tho  age  of  maturity  for 
ordinary  fruit  trees,  they  aro  still 
immature  and  unpio  luctive.  There 
are,  at  Terni,oIiv(!  tiecs  under  which 
tradition  says  that  Pliny  walked. 
After  gazing  at  them  utlentively, 
you  can  easily  bring  yourself  to 
l)elicvo  that  they  are  not  real  trees, 
but  elves,  hamn(lr\ads,  nnyielding 
nymphs,  imprisoned  out  of  revenge 
in  a  dungeon  of  bark  under  the 
form  of  a  vegetable.  They  are  cap- 
tive spirits  c  uifinc  1  in  a  living 
coffin  which  has  grown  into  and 
become  part  of  tluinsclvcs.  In  tho 
weird  hours  of  iiig'it,  they  mu.st 
surely  shake  olT  iheir  encircling 
panoply,  and  fr>)lic  and  gambol 
over  ravine  and  loclc,  until  the 
cocks  shrill  clarion  warns  them  to 
retire  to  tho  couccalment  of  their 
sylvan  disguise. 

Of  La  Corniche,  whence  you  may 
behold  distant  Corsica;  of  Wentono, 
whcro  you  may  muse  over  the 
Mediterranean  waves;  of  Monaco, 
where  you  may  gamble  away  your 
last  napoleon  ;  of  Nice,  where  you 
may  dance  gaily  into  your  collin,  I 
have  not  a  word  to  say  at  jjresont. 


H9 


THE  TAMAR  AND  THE  TAVY. 


HAVE  you  ever  been  at  Ply- 
month,  my  dear  Achates  ?  I 
think  I  know  your  answer— you 
have  intimated  as  much  to  me  be- 
fore— '  Only  passed  through'  A 
vague  answer,  conveying  the  notion 
of  only  an  infinitesimal  knowledge 
of  Plymouth.  Perhaps  while  you 
were  waiting;  for  the  train,  like  Mr. 
Tennyson  at  Coventry,  you  lounged 
about  with  grooms  and  porters. 
Perhaps  you  did  as  I  did  when  I 
first  '  passed  through '  Plymouth, 
timed  yourself  and  ran  up  to  see  tlie 
Hoe.  How  you  must  have  been 
astonished  when  the  magnificent 
Sound  first  stretched  before  you! 
Had  you  ever  before  seen  such  an 
extent  of  natural  loveliness  in  con- 
junction with  the  highest  product  of 
our  civilizilion,  the  escarped  rocks, 
the  prodigious  breakwater,  the 
stately  war  vessels  with  their  dor- 
mant thimdeis?  You  ought  to 
allow  yourself  at  least  three  days. 
And  if  it  is  the  fallow  time  of  the 
year,  and  you  are  at  leisure  to  follow 
the  guidance  of  your  own  sweet  will, 
your  thrte  days  may  advantageously 
be  expanded  into  at  least  three 
weeks.  For  let  me  tell  you  can- 
didly, Achates,  that  Plymouth  is  an 
extraordinary  p'ace.  It  is  not  ex- 
traordinary even  as  other  places  are 
accounted  extraordinary.  In  going 
throngh  the  wilderness  of  this  world 
I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  our  great 
semi-metropolitan  cities,  Manches- 
ter, Liverpool,  Birmingham,  Shef- 
field, Glasgow,  Belfast,  Bristol.  And 
an  Englishman  hardly  knows  his 
country  unless  he  knows  these,  for 
they  most  materially  help  to  make 
up  England.  But  they  have  failed 
to  impress  me,  although  I  tried  to 
keep  my  eyes  and  my  mind  fairly 
open,  in  the  same  way  that  Plymouth 
has  impressed  me.  Because  at  Ply- 
mouth you  have,  more  than  else- 
where, a  perfect  combination  of 
supreme  natural  beauty  with  the 
highest  achievements  of  modern 
art.  I  grant  you  that  this  requires 
a  great  deal  of  faith  in  the  firot  in- 
stance. As  you  move  along  the 
streets,  where  you  will  observe  quan- 
tities of  Devonshire  girls  with  very 

VOL.  XL— NO.  LXV. 


pretty  complexions,  allowing  for  a 
certain  stir  and  picturosqueness 
you  will  still  think  that  your  ex- 
l^cctations  have  received  only  a  very 
limited  gratification.  I  am  pre- 
pared for  that.  But  let  the  place 
grow  upon  you  and  it  will.  1  met 
a  Goth  once  who  said  he  thought 
nothing  of  the  Sound  when  he  first 
saw  it.  But  that  same  amiable 
Goth  admitted  that  before  his  pro- 
menades on  the  Hoe  had  ceased  ho 
had  learned  to  discern  a  thousand 
beauties  in  the  Sound.  You  will 
remember  that  Sir  Francis  Drake 
and  his  sea-captains  were  playing  at 
bowls  on  tlie  Hoe  when  the  news  of 
the  Armada  was  brought  to  them. 
But  set  about  your  investigations 
in  an  orderly  way  with  map  and 
'  Murray.'  There  is  a  fine  history 
of  the  British  navy  which  you  may 
work  out  in  the  three  towns,  Ply- 
mouth, Stonehouse,  and  Devonport, 
the  whole  of  them  being  called 
Plymouth  for  short.  If  you  under- 
stand docks  and  dockyards,  gunnery 
and  machinery,  factories  and  forti- 
fications, victualling,  cooperage, and 
storage,  smithering  and  engineering 
— I  am  paying  an  undeserved  com- 
pliment to  your  understanding  in 
sui^posing  for  a  moment  that  you 
do— you  will  derive  a  great  deal  of 
instructive  enjoyment.  But  if  your 
enjoyment  is  of  a  mitigated  descrip- 
tion, and  mainly  made  up  of  wonder- 
ment, your  eye  will  hardly  be  suffi- 
ciently sated  with  the  beauty  of  the 
neighbouring  shores  and  the  inland 
scenery. 

Then  again  Plymouth  is  a  very 
social  place.  The  people  there  are 
not  particularly  rich  people.  Mil- 
lionaires and  territorial  lords  do  not 
abound  in  Plymouth  society.  The 
chief  nobility  are,  in  fact,  non-resi- 
dent. But  there  is  a  wonderful 
gathering  of  army  men  and  navy 
men,  to  my  mind  the  most  interest- 
ing people  in  the  world,  and  abun- 
dance of  acute  professional  men,  and 
merchants  enow  ;  and  if  it  were  my 
object  to  improve  your  mind,  I 
would  explain  to  you  the  very  con- 
siderable things  which  the  sons  ot 
Plymouth  have  achieved  in  art  and 

2    O 


450 


Tlie  T,iniar  and  the  Tavy. 


science — but  I  nra  afmid,  Achates, 
that  in  cnily  life  jnn  l)oro  only  a 
very  slitnlowy  rcscniMaiicc  to  Lord 
Manuilaj's  '  intclligunt  schoolboy.' 
The  Plymouth  pooplu  generally  en- 
tertain very  cheerful  views  about 
thinps.  The  corpiration  sold  their 
noble  pnrish  ehuroli— that  is  to  say, 
thomlvowson  -in onlcrtorai.-e funds 
to  build  a  tin  aire  There  were.-overal 
social  i)oints  a' loiit  Plyuioutli  — notso 
mucli  connef'ted  with  the  swells  as 
with  the  niol)-ility,  which  struck 
me,  the  etdi>:htened  tourist,  as  beiii},' 
very  iutere-liiip.  There  is  an  enter- 
prising man  there  who  hires  several 
Bteaiu- vessels  for  pleasure  excnr- 
sions  in  the  suiunicr  ot:  the  Plj- 
inouth  waters  Several  of  the.>c  are 
exprcS'sly  arranged  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  pers(<ns  who  will  be  confined 
by  business  during  the  day.  There  are 
Early  Dawn  Excursions  and  Moon- 
light Excursidus,  right  round  the 
Breakwater  and  to  Caw.'^and  Pay,  or 
out  into  the  open  sea,  round  the  Ed- 
dystonc  Lighthouse  and  back  again. 
On  a  fine  afternoon  or  evening  the 
boats  will  be  thripn_-ed,  and  on  many 
tired,  worn  faces  there  will  be  a  mo.st 
happy  expris>ion  of  j)Ieasure  and 
repose.  A  very  favourite!  excursion 
is  up  thu  Tamar  to  tlui  \Veir-head, 
but  that  isa  loiigexpeditioii.and  re- 
quires nearly  the  whole  of  the  day. 
Then  any  one  whu  is  at  IM\ mouth 
on  a  fine  Monday  ought  to  take  the 
ferry  and  go  over  to  Mtnuit  Edgc- 
cumt)0.     Every  Hbmday  the  Earl — 

'Gives  hilt  broad  Uwiis  until  (he  t>ct  of  sun 
Up  to  tbe  people' 

Most  pleasant  it  is  to  seo  the  people 
enjoying  thenif-elvcsamid  lawns  and 
terrace  1  walks,  and  leafy  avenues, 
and  in  wooded  dells,  and  on  lofty 
clifTs,  and  along  Fcquestercl  paths 
by  the  side  of  the  ocean.  But  l)0 
there  early  in  the  morning  or  in  the 
gloaming,  when  the  ])re:-encc  of 
crowds  Avill  not  da.sh  away  a  portion 
of  the  enchantment  of  the  scene. 
But  the  Iov(diness  can  never  Ik) 
really  dimmed.  Yon  can  very  well 
understand  how  Medina  Sidonia, 
when  tlio  .\nnada  drew  near  to  I'ly- 
montli,  (-ignalle*!  out  Jlount  Edge- 
cuml)0  as  his  sharo  of  the  future 
Bj)oilH.  'I  hen  you  will  godown  to  the 
Cremill  Beach,whcre  .Sir  Jo.shua  Pey- 


nolds  painted  his  first  portrait  on  on 
old  sail,  and  Ik  fore  you  is  the  broad 
estuary  of  the  ilamouze,  witli  many 
a  man-of-war  resting  ])eacofnlly  in 
its  shadow.s,  where  many  confluent 
stnanis  pour  their  waters,  and 
among  them  tbe  Tamar  and  the 
Tavy. 

I  will,  as  you  request,  give  you 
my  notes  on  t!;e.ee  rivers,  not  only 
liecau^e  I  visited  tlani  from  Ply- 
mouth, but  because  I  have  repeat- 
edly ujet  them  in  my  tours,  and  they 
liave  s  J  interested  me  that  I  have 
read  up  any  information  which  1 
could  prouUie  resi)eeliiig  them.  My 
boat  ]).issos  beneath  the  wonderful 
tube  of  the  Albert  Bridge,  Pruuel's 
greatest  achievement.  Yioixi  the 
river  that  tube  looks  as  slight  as 
i'.londin's  tight-rope  to  the  flooring 
of  faces  below.  It  is  simply  a  rail- 
way tight-rope,  and  a  nervous  pas- 
senger would  be  startled  if  he  could 
realize  his  position  as  I  am  able  to 
realize  it  for  him.  Then  jou  pais 
S.illash,  the  crazy  old  houses  piled 
one  up(jn  another,  lalconied  and 
balustraded.  At  this  i)oiiit  the  river 
is  a  vast  sheet  of  water,  a  lake  sha- 
dowed by  pendant  woods.  Here,  on 
the  left  side,  is  the  confluence  of  the 
Tainiir  and  the  Tav.\,  amid  the 
f'a;iious  Avoods  of  Warleigh  and  with 
Dartmoor  as  a  di-tant  lackground. 
The  Tavy  is  a  regular  Daitmejpr 
stre  am,  and  gives  its  name  to  Tavi- 
stock", a  frontier  town  of  the  Moor. 
In  Browne's  '  Pastorals'  there  is  a 
jiretty  story  of  '  The  Loves  of  the 
Walla  and  the  Tavy,'  jjerhajis  the 
prettiest  of  all.  Browne  was  con- 
lem]Kjrary  with  Shakspeare  and 
Spenser.  The  Tamar  is  not  a 
Dartmoor  river.  As  far  as  its 
course  goes,  some  sixty  miles  to  the 
sea,  it  serves  as  the  boriler  between 
Devon  and  Cornwall,  and  where  it 
fiiil.s,  not  far  from  the  Bristol  Chan- 
nel, its  i)lacc  as  a  boundary  is 
taken  by  a  much  more  diminutive 
stream. 

Warleigh,  at  the  confluence  of  the 
stream,  has  its  own  place  both  in 
history  and  legend.  There  is  a 
high,  bold  rock,  called  Warleigh 
Tor,  which  nobly  fienlinels  the  en- 
trance to  the  Tavy.  In  the  great 
hall  of  the  mansion,  lighted  with 
windows  of  stained  glass,  are  old 


The  Tamar  and  the  Tavy. 


451 


portraits  wliich  ought  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  old  moniiinents  in 
Tamerton  church.  Tanierton  church 
is  close  by  the  little  creek  of  the 
same  name,  where  it  is  pleasant  to 
rovv  about  ou  a  summer  evening ; 
and  not  long  ago  there  was  to  bo 
seen  here— but  it  is  now  blown 
down— the  fatal  oak  of  Coplestone. 
Here  Coplestouo  of  Warleigli,  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  a  fit  of 
passion  threw  a  dagger  at  his  godson, 
■which  slew  him  beneath  the  oak, 
and  he  had  to  purchase  the  avari- 
cious queen's  pardon  with  thirteen 
of  his  manors  in  Cornwall.  There 
is  a  hamlet  of  Coplestone,  in  the 
parish  of  Crediton,  which  hamlet 
has  a  station  on  the  North  Devon 
line,  boasting  of  a  strange  cross,  to 
which  no  one  has  ever  yet  been  able 
to  assign  date  or  meaning,  but  which 
the  distinguished  Bishop  Coplestone 
caused  to  be  exactlj'  reproduced  on 
his  own  lands.  If  I  were  a  novelist, 
I  should  sui3pose  that  this  curious 
cross  had  some  connection  with  the 
*  angered  '  but  repentant  godfather 
who  acted,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
with  such  extreme  imprudence.  But 
I  must  not  now  linger  in  Tamerton 
Creek,  as  I  intend  to  make  a  push 
for  the  Weir-head.  The  Plymouth 
boats  often  promise  to  take  you  to 
the  Weir-head,  but  they  frequently 
fall  short  of  performance.  Let  me 
make  honourable  mention  of  the 
occasion  when  I  achieved  my  object. 
It  was  a  boat  chartered  by  a  most 
amiable  set  of  people  belonging  to  a 
church  which  was  called  'Eitual- 
istic'  I  remember  knowing  a  simi- 
lar set  of  people  who  used  to  dine 
together  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  I 
speak  as  a  perfectly  unprejudiced 
individual ;  and  I  consider  that  these 
innovations  on  the  traditional  tea- 
parties  of  another  ecclesiastical  type 
are  of  a  very  praiseworthy  descrip- 
tion. The  profits  were  to  be  devoted 
to  the  schools  or  something  of  that 
sort ;  and  I  believe  the  treasurer 
exhibited  a  decisive  balance  of  five- 
pence,  which  caused  great  triumph, 
a  deficit  being  the  more  ordinary 
result.  Under  their  auspices  I  did 
the  twenty-two  miles  of  river  to  the 
Weir-head,  which  I  had  previously 
failed  to  do  under  any  other  auspices. 
The  river  scenery  is  really  very  re- 


marka1)lc,  and  the  expedition  ought 
to  bo  done  more  than  once.  In  order 
properly  to  appreciate  river  scenery, 
here  and  elsewhere,  you  should  tra- 
verse high  grounds  near  the  river, 
where  you  can  obtain  views  com- 
manding the  windings  of  the  stream. 
There  is  one  such  view  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Tamar,  which  is 
considered  by  competent  aiithority 
as  commanding  the  most  impressive 
and  beaiitiful  view  in  Cornwall. 
So  we  piss  up  the  river  admiring 
the  opening  and  closing  shores,  here 
the  beautiful  curve,  there  the  dense 
masses  of  foliage  shadowing  the 
water-side,  now  the  glimpses  of 
pastoral  scenery,  presently  the  views 
of  manor-house  and  mansion.  You 
will  not  fail  to  notice  a  modern 
castle  called  Pentiliie,  beneath  a 
tower-crowned  hill  called  Mount 
Ararat.  The  worthy  who  possessed 
this  estate  at  the  beginning  of  the 
last  century  '  expressed  a  desire  that 
after  death  he  should  be  placed 
in  this  tower,  seated  in  a  chair  in 
his  customary  dress,  and  before  a 
table  furnished  with  the  aiDpliances 
of  drinking  and  smoking.'  Then 
the  Tamar  below  the  woods  of  Cot- 
hele  are  very  pretty.  The  river 
skirts  the  embowered  hollow  of 
Danescombe,  and  close  by  a  dense 
rock  shadows  the  water,  crowned  by 
a  small  chapel,  which  has  its  legend. 
When  the  boat  does  not  go  further 
than  Calstoek,  the  passengers  break 
up  into  parties  for  rambles  in  the 
woods— oak,  elm,  and  chestuut.  The 
embattled  mansion  of  Cothele,  the 
third  seat  of  the  Mount-Edgecumbe 
family,  which  you  may  visit  in  a 
day,  must  be  passed  over  in  despair 
of  hoping  to  do  it  justice.  The  Queen 
and  the  Prince  Consort  came  up  the 
Tamar  in  their  steam-yacht,  and 
visited  Cothele  and  slept  there  a 
night.  They  also  went  to  the  Weir- 
head,  and  from  thence  made  a  call 
at  End  sleigh — and  I  propose  to  do 
the  same.  By-and-by  you  come  to 
the  Morwell  rocks.  The  river  is 
girt  on  either  hand  by  lofty  rocks, 
but  the  Morwell  rock  is  so  superb 
that  people  might  well  come  from 
remote  parts  of  the  country  in  order 
to  revel  in  such  scenery.  A  seem- 
ingly perilous  path  skirts  it,  called 
the  Duke  of  Bedford's  road,  having 

2    O   2 


i52 


The  Tamar  and  the  Tavy. 


been  laid  out  by  the  roipiiiiig  diiko 
of  the  pcriml.  You  pass  into  sonio 
privati'  gromiil  hard  by  tlie  Weir- 
head,  into  wliich  y.m  are  udniittod 
u\M.m  the  i)aynieiit  of  the  very  mode- 
rate fee  of  OIK'  jHiiny.  Tlie  wiir  of 
course  put  an  end  to  all  further 
uavij;ation.  The  multitude  of  weirs 
is  Keominj:  more  and  more  a 
Ferious  matter,  and  no  weir  oupht 
to  1)0  ptrinitto<l  when  a  falmon- 
Iddder,  properly  approved,  is  not 
provided.  I  fell  into  conversation 
witli  a  gentleman  who  told  me  that 
he  use<l  to  rent  this  portion  of  the 
river,  many  years  l)e!"ore,  as  a 
tisheiy.  That  part  of  the  i)leasurc 
of  ti.-hinp  which  consists  in  the  en- 
joyment of  scenery  cnnnot  l)e  found 
in  greater  perfection  than  upon  the 
pleasant  turf,  by  the  sparkling 
river,  beneath  tlie  shadow  of  the 
Morwell  rock.  But  fishing  in  the 
Tamar  is  not  now  what  it  u^ed  to 
be.  The  mines  have  spoilt  all  that. 
There  is  a  famous  mine  which  goes 
under  the  bed  of  the  river.  Many 
streams  in  Devon  and  Cornwall, 
which  used  to  yield  excellent  trout 
and  salmon  tishing,  have  lx!en 
poisoned  by  tin  and  coi)per.  The 
streams  which  tlow  from  the  Dart- 
moor watershed  are  comparatively 
untainted  ;  but  near  J)artmoor  the 
trout  are  small,  and  the  salmon  too 
far  from  the  mouths  of  rivers  to  Ix) 
in  goo  1  condition.  Our  old  friend 
reheai-sed  the  delights  of  an  Indian 
Paradise  by  renewing  his  old  s]iorts 
and  reliauling  the  captiired  booty. 
He  congiatulates  himself  on  having 
had  the  l)est  of  things  when  things 
weje  not  so  bad.  Properly  speak- 
ing, you  ought  now  to  return  back 
with  your  excursitm  party  to  Ply- 
mouth You  have  probably  met 
with  ^OIne  nice  people,  and  you 
may  improve  your  a'?(|uaint4iuce 
with  them  at  lunch  in  the  inn  or 
during  ii  stroll  in  the  wools.  But 
if  jou  really  want  to  cxjilore  the 
Tamar  and  the  Tavy,  joii  must 
make  your  adiiMix  at  >b)rwellliam, 
and  m>ike  aciogs  country  to  some 
other  point.  It  is  a  diflicult  thing, 
Achates,  to  make  your  eUctiKn 
bctwten  that  cheerful  ]>arty  and  a 
solitary  rand>le.  I  know  souje 
fello*K  who  would  abandon  any 
progranuno    from   such   considera- 


tions; but  what  is  the  use  of  a 
piogrammo  unless  you  mean  to 
carry  it  out?  Our  business  lor  the 
present  must  lie  with  tho.so  twin 
sister- streams  of  the  Tamar  and 
Tavy. 

1  will  tell  you  something,  sug- 
gested bv  an  incident  the  other  day, 
wliich  you  can  work  into  a  story 
it  you  like.  At  Salisbury  a  young 
gentleman  is  lounging  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  railway  station,  waiting 
for  the  arrival  of  the  Ltmdon  train. 
Now  this  young  gentleman  has 
only  got  a  do/.en  mihs  to  go  to  some 
neighbouring  station,  and  for  that 
purpose  he  is  duly  provided  with  a 
Fccoudcla.ss  ticket.  But  it  so  hai>- 
pens  tltat,  iis  the  train  draws  up  by 
the  platform,  he  catches  an  enticing 
view  of  a  very  nice-looking  girl,  with 
lively  eyes,  seated  in  a  compart- 
ment of  a  first-cla.ss  carriage.  He 
commits  error  number  one  by  enter- 
ing tlie  carriage,  and  taking  his  scat 
o|>posite  the  young  lady.  They  are 
alone,  but  she  does  not  brandish  a 
dagger  or  display  a  pistol,  with  the 
statement  that  she  is  jireparcd  to 
protect  herself  from  insult,  which,  I 
believe,  has  happened  to  be  the  case 
with  elderly  or  excited  females.  On 
the  contrary,  the  lis-eliness  of  her 
conversation  correspontis  with  the 
liveliness  of  her  ejcs.  By-and-by 
the  train  halt.s  at  the  petty  station, 
V)ut  the  gentleman  traveller,  chiinned 
with  this  ])Ieasant  companionship, 
madly  goes  on.  Error  number  two. 
It  was  very  rice  while  tliey  were 
discussing  balls  and  rides,  novels 
and  news,  Paris  and  the  Highlands; 
but  when  tluy  are  not  very  far  from 
London,  tick(  ts  are  in  due  coiirse 
demamled  Now  this  is  very  awk- 
ward for  the  young  gintleman,  first, 
because  lie  has  no  money  in  his 
pocket  to  pay  for  the  extra  distance 
lie  has  travelled  ;  and  seioudly,  be- 
cause he  is  travelling  in  a  first-c'ass 
carriage  with  only  a  second  cla.ss 
ticket  in  liis  pocket.  That  young 
man  deserves  a  moral  lesson  on  the 
propriety  of  adlu  ring  to  an  original 
intention.  What  shall  Imj  our  dc- 
hiiiiniiDit,  Achates?  Shall  we  leave 
that  youth  on  the  ])latforni,  (Xj)oscd 
to  the  just  scorn  of  the  young  lady, 
and  in  the  custody  of  the  station- 
master?  or  shall  wo  be  liberal,  my 


Tlie  Tamar  and  the  Tavy. 


453 


friend  —  the  notion  will  cost  us 
nothing— and  make  that  yonng  lady 
produce  her  purse,  atid  the  gentle- 
man procure  her  name  and  address 
for  the  purpose  of  repaying  the  loan, 
and  so  lay  the  foundation  for  a 
marriage  and  a  life  of  happiness? 

We  only  return  so  far  as  Mor- 
•welham  Quay,  and  then  we  go  by 
the  side  of  the  canal  to  Tavistock. 
This  walk  is  remarkable  as  giving 
some  of  the  prettiest  canal  scenery 
in  existence,  and  also  for  the  con- 
siderable distance  which  the  canal 
traverses  underground.  The  scenery 
by  the  towing-path  is  fully  equal  to 
much  fine  river  scenery.  Here  and 
there  you  will  see  the  engine-house 
of  a  mine  peeping  through  foliage, 
and  will  own  that  even  this  very 
utilitarian  object  can  be  made  to 
look  picturesque.  Here,  too,  you 
will  catch  a  gleam  of  the  Tavy, 
rushing  through  a  defile  of  wooded 
hills,  which  we  last  saw  by  Taraerton 
Creek,  in  its  juncture  with  the  Tamar. 
Tamar  and  Tavy  are  etymologically 
connected,  the  one  meaning  the 
'great  Taw,'  and  the  other  the 
'  little  Taw.'  You  will  pass  Crown- 
dale,  the  birthplace  of  that  great 
Devonshire  worthy.  Sir  Francis 
Drake.  At  Tavistock  I  come  to  an 
anchor  for  a  day  or  two  at  the  Bed- 
ford. Charles  the  Second,  who, 
when  Prince  of  Wales,  spent  some 
very  wet  days  here  during  the 
civil  wars,  used  to  say  that,  however 
fair  it  might  be  elsewhere,  he  was 
sure  it  was  raining  at  Tavistock.  I 
had  nothing  to  complain  of,  however, 
beyond  a  series  of  passing  showers, 
that  left  bright  weather  in  the  in- 
terval. As,  however,  I  have  arrived 
at  the  fair  town  which  derives  its 
name  from  the  Tavy,  I  will  now  give 
my  few  words  of  discourse  respect- 
ing the  river  itself 

The  source  of  the  Tavy  lies  on  one 
of  the  loftiest  parts  ot  the  moor,  one 
ot  the  most  sequestered  and  iinap- 
proachable  parts  of  the  western 
•wilderness  of  Dartmoor.  '  Vast 
tracts  of  morass,  bog,  and  heath 
stretch  away  on  every  side.  Besides 
Furtor,  tew  tors  appear  to  break 
the  deep-felt  monotony  of  the  dreary 
wilds  around.  Not  a  sheep-path  or 
peat- stack  gives  token  of  the  pre- 
sence of  man  or   beast;  and  the 


heathfowl  which  may  occasionally 
spring  from  the  heather  only  prove 
that  this,  one  of  their  last  retreats, 
is  seldom  invaded  by  the  sportsman.' 
Lower  down  the  Tavy  receives  a 
stream,  which  is  considered  to  form 
the  northward  boundary  of  the 
forest,  and  is  appropriately  called 
Rattlebrook.  Lower  still  we  reach 
Tavy  Cleave,  a  range  of  tors  to 
which  a  castellated  character  has 
been  ascribed,  swept  by  the  Tavy 
as  if  by  a  moat.  Below  the  Cleave 
the  river-bed  flows  over  a  solid 
rocky  surface.  A  bold  eminence, 
called  Gertor,  or  Great  Tor,  beetles 
down  upon  the  stream,  and  so 
we  get  on  to  Mary  Tavy.  There 
are  two  picturesque  hamlets,  called 
respectively  Mary  Tavy  and  Peter 
Tavy,  easily  accessible  from  Tavis- 
tock. And  there  is  another  spot 
ot  especial  beauty  which  ought  to 
be  visited,  where  the  river  Walk- 
ham  meets  the  Tavy.  Keep  up 
the  Tavy  till  you  come  to  the 
Walkham,  and  keep  along  the 
Walkhara  as  long  as  you  can,  and 
you  will  not  regret  it.  Both  the 
valley  of  the  Tavy  and  the  valley  of 
the  Walkham  are  far-famed.  If  you 
only  go  far  enough  up  the  Walkham 
you  will  skirt  Mist  Tor,  perhaps  the 
finest,  and  be  able  to  puzzle  your- 
self with  some  of  the  most  remark- 
able Celtic  remains.  There  are 
especially  some  curious  stone 
avenues,  respecting  which  the  tra- 
dition "runs  that  they  were  erected 
when  wolves  haunted  the  valleys, 
and  winged  serpents  the  hills. 
Where  the  Tavy  and  Walkham  meet 
is  called  the  Double  Water.  At  this 
point  there  is,  or  was,  a  bridge  of  a 
peculiar  and  perilous  kind,  and 
common  enough  in  the  Dartmoor 
region.  A  t-ingle  plank  is  flung 
across  the  stream  from  rock  to  rock, 
with  only  a  frail  handrail  for  sup- 
port. The  depth  generally  is  not 
great,  except,  as  frequently  happens, 
the  river  is  swollen  with  rains  ;  but 
then  the  current  is  exceedingly  ra- 
pid, and  you  may  be  carried  away 
in  a  moment  to  some  deep  pool 
where  you  are  out  of  your  depth. 
I  confess  that  I  ingloriously  drew 
back,  but  not  unwisely  so,  for  the 
ascertained  number  of  deaths  by- 
accidents  at  such  bridges  is  not  in- 


154 


The  Tiimar  and  the  Tavij. 


cons-iderablo.  It  is  the  Dartmoor 
tnuiilion  tlint  every  ytnr  tlu;  Tuniar 
claims  n.  life,  uiid  if  nny  y»ar  s-Iioulil 
]ia<s  witliont  a  iluatli,  Lu  claims  two 
lives  tlic  juxt  year. 

Tlie  Tavy  merrily  courses  nionp:  in 
the  re.irof  your  liotel.  Tlio  Bedford 
occupies  a  p  trtion  of  tlio  site  of  the 
old  al)l>ey.  I  \v(;uld  make  grateful 
nienliou  of  unotlier  j>oition  of  tlio 
ahlx-y,  which  is  couvirted  iuto  as 
cX'-elimt  a  puMic  lilirary  as  I  have 
ever  seen  inasmall  proviu'-ial  town. 
I  have  very  happily  liet;u  1  :d  there 
80uie  of  thoi-o  showery  hours  of 
which  TriDCO  Charles  coniplancd. 
Other  portions  of  tiic  at)l)ey  aro 
amical'ly  slurred  liclween  the  vicar- 
iif^e  and  a  dissenting  clini)el.  Sensi- 
ble fellows  tJJOHe  old  monks,  in 
choosing  a  sito  sheltered  by  sur- 
rounding hills  with  this  sparkling 
river,  richer,  doutitless,  in  iish  then 
than  now.  I  noticed  vaiious  fisher- 
men, however,  in  the  summer  even- 
ings ;  and  that  walk  hard  by  the 
aliiiey,  where  a  bridge  is  ardied 
over  a  cascade,  is  to  myujind  about 
tlio  |)retticst  thing  in  Tavistock. 
I>iit  Tavistock  claims  to  bo  the  fruit- 
ful mother  of  many  distiiiguif<hed 
men,  and  its  roll  is  certainly  re- 
markable, including  the  great  law- 
yer, (iianviII,who.-e  monument  is  in 
the  church.  Its  loc;ilities  arc  be- 
loved by  poets  and  artists,  and  few 
scenes  are  more;  pieluresipio  tlian 
the  favourite  haunts  by  tho  Tavy. 
.\t  Tavistock  the  river  is  of  some 
little  breadth;  and  the  gnarled  trees, 
wlio.'-o  roots  are  deep  among  the 
water  tlags,  almost  overshadow  tho 
channel. 

The  finest  point  on  tho  Tamar  is 
within  a  manageable  distance  of 
Tavistock.  Miltn  Abbot,  t-ix  miles 
o(T,  is  the  point  for  Endsleigh.  Only 
do  not  Ikj  deceived  by  the  guidc- 
b  -iil.H  that  tell  you  there  is  an  inn 
tin-.;;  the  old  tumble  lown  littlo 
public  di>es  not  deserve  tho  narao; 
but  either  return  to  Tavistock,  or 
push  onwards  to  I  aunceston.  Eiids- 
leigh  is  the  .se.it  of  tlio  untitleil  Mr. 
Kussell,  who  is  the  heir  to  the  duke- 
dom of  iJcilford.  It  is  now  many 
years  ago  since  aduchessof  Iledford 
wa-s  beyon<l  meiisuro  delighted  by  a 
view,  which  she  ol)t4iined  near  ilil- 
tou  Abbot,  of  the  river  Tainar.  And 


well  she  might  bo,  for  the  .scone  is 
thoroughly  Swi.«s  — as  nobly  Swiss 
as  any  scene  of  pure  Englihh  l)eauty 
can  l)ec()nie.  For  the  silver  lints  of 
tho  river  flow  through  ravine  and 
gorj;o,  snd  thick  woods  cover  their 
abrujtt  slojies,  save  where,  close  by 
one  side  of  the  water,  there  aro 
lawns  and  pastures  for  cattle,  anu 
]>urling  brooks  from  the  higher 
grounds  pmirdown  intothe  Tamar; 
and  iocl<s  are  not  wantijig,  nor  any- 
thing which  can  lend  either  softness, 
or  sublimity,  or  lovelini.'^s  to  the 
prospect.  The  duche.ss  with  a  clear 
eye  detected  the  marvellous  excel- 
lence of  tho  site.  This  Duchess 
Gcorgiana  was  one  of  tho.sc  great 
jx)i)i)le.  Achates,  who,  mach  more 
easily  than  you  or  I,  c  )uld  have  a 
i-omanlic  wish  accomplished.  She 
chnso  the  site,  and  her  husband,  the 
Duke  John,  built  her  a  cottage,  and 
her  four  sons  laid  the  first  stone.  It 
is  a  cottage,  you  understand,  not  for 
a  cottager  but  f(jr  a  duchess.  I 
have  been  in  some  lovely  Italian 
villa«,  embowered  cottages  over- 
looking tho  waters  of  Como  and 
Lugano,  but,  in  its  way,  End.sleigh 
is  as  pretty  ns  anj  tiling  of  tho  kind. 
The  cottage  was  built  by  Wyatt, 
•who  restoreel  Windsor  for  George 
the  F(jurth,  and  got  knighted  in 
con.sequciice,  and  then  elongated  his 
name  to  Wyatvillc,  I  suppose  to  suit 
his  new  honours  better.  There  was 
some  dillicult}  at  first  about  going 
to  Kndsleigh,  as  Earl  Rn.^sell  was 
staying  there  with  his  kinsman  ;  but 
I  took  the  first  opportunity  of  doing 
this  part  of  the  Tamar.  One  of  tho 
fii-st  objects  which  met  my  view  was 
ouo  on  which  I  felt  sure  that  tho 
noble  enrl's  gaze  had  also  lingered. 
This  was  a  statuette,  in  an  external 
recess,  of  Earl  Grey  engaged  in 
reading  the  Keform  Act.  But  you 
have  no  bu.siness  to  think  of  politics 
at  Endsleigh ;  you  should  rather 
think  of  '  love  in  a  cottage  ;'  a  cot- 
tage so  admirably  contrived  that,  as 
poverty  cannot  come  in  at  tho  door, 
.so  you  may  \\o\Hi  that  love  will  not 
fly  out  of  the  window.  You  have 
liere  lawn  and  parterre,  terrace  and 
dell,  grotto  and  arbour,  ro.'-ary  and 
rockery ;  and  that  noble  Tainar, 
flashing  gcmliko  is  quite  the  gem 
of  the  prospect.    You  pass  through 


County  Courts. 


455 


tho  park  to  the  eliore  of  tlio  rapid 
transparent  stream,  and  then  yon 
see  a  boat  moored,  and  your  call 
will  soon  suDjmon  the  woodman 
from  his  cottage,  and  then  you  may 
ramble  at  your  will.  Only,  as  tho 
late  Duke  of  Bedford  was  once  litai'd 
to  say  that  he  had  cut  forty  miles  of 
rides  through  the  woods,  you  had 
better  not  wander  too  far  from  the 
house  and  grounds,  unless  you  are 
acting  on  a  pre-arranged  ])\an.  I 
will  venture  to  transcrilxj  for  your 
edification.  Achates,  a  remark  which 
I  have  made  on  one  of  the  features 
of  this  sequestered  and  wonderfully 
pretty  place.  '  The  constant  pre- 
sence of  water,  and  the  admirable 
way  in  which  it  is  mMnnged,  form  a 
peculiar  feature  of  Eudhleigh.  A 
fountain  faces  the  orange  and  lemon 
trees  blossoming  in  the  ojjen  air ;  a 
taller  fountain  rises  amid  the  flower 
and  fern-covered  rocks  near  the  con- 
servatories. From  the  high  grounds 
above  the  cottage  little  streams 
run  down  towards  the  river,  or 
the  small  shadowed  lake  ;  a  stream 
in  a  granite  basin  skirts  the  garden; 
there  are  continual  spoutings  from 
granite  lips ;  and  on  the  cushioned 


.seat  of  the  verandah  you  are  well- 
nigh  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  sound  of 
flowing  or  falling  wafer.' 

You  will  hardly  match  this  Ends- 
Icigh  scenery  with  anj tiling  else 
either  on  the  Taniar  or  Tavy.  My 
limits  will  only  allow  mc  to  take  a 
final  glance  at  the  source  of  the 
Tamar.  That  lies  in  a  very  different 
kind  of  country,  near  the  rock- 
bound  coast  of  tho  north  of  the 
peninsula  of  Cornwall  and  Devon. 
Here  the  Tamar  drains  from  a  dreary 
morass  amid  bleak  hills,  '  divided 
into  fuzzy  crofts  and  rnsh-covered 
swamps.'  Eut  you  will  find  near 
here  what  you  would  Ica^t  expect — 
fine  examples  of  the  ecclesiastic  and 
domestic  architecture  of  Mr.  G.  G. 
Scott.  Having  come  to  the  source, 
you  may  either  go  east  to  Clovelly, 
or  westw^ard  to  'wild  Dundagil,  by 
the  Cornish  sea;'  wonderful  locali- 
ties, both  of  them.  Achates ;  but  the 
Tamar  and  Tavy,  less  visited  by 
travellers,  are  in  their  way  equally 
deserving  of  ex23!oration ;  and  if  you 
will  go  there  this  summer,  I  will 
with  pleasure  go  over  tho  ground 
again  with  you. 


COUNTY  COUETS. 


A  COUNTY-COURT  summons  is 
not  by  any  means  a  pleasant 
thing  to  find  lying  on  one's  break- 
fast-table, amongst  the  ham  and 
eggs;  nor  a  pleasant  thing  to  re- 
ceive from  the  wife  of  one's  bosom 
on  returning  from  a  nice  little  tour 
in  search  of  health  or  business;  in 
fact,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  be 
acquainted  with  under  any  circum- 
stances. It  comes  generally  as  the 
climax  to  a  whole  series  of  an- 
noyances. Dunning  letters  from 
Threaelneedle,  a  tailor  on  scientific 
principles,  who  has  pressing  bills 
to  meet  in  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
are  moderately  unwelcome,  as  every- 
body who  has  grazed  the  edges  of 
debt  must  be  perfectly  aware;  and 
the  matter  becomes  an  absolute 
nuisance  as  soon  as  Thrt  adneedle's 
lawyer  begins  to  have  a.  baud  in  it, 
and  sends  little  remii.ders  v/d  the 
Post  Office  in  St.  Martin  s-le-Grand. 


But  the  County  Court  summons  is 
a  culmination.  The  appointment 
of  some  definite  limit  for  the  pay- 
ment of  Threadneedlti's  account  is 
painfully  destructive  of  that  beau- 
tiful vagueness  which  characterizes 
the  earlier  stages  of  pecuniary 
liability.  One  always  711  cans  to  pay, 
as  a  matter  of  course ;  but  the 
poetry  of  debt  is  knocked  on  the 
head  the  moment  that  a  date  is 
fixed.  There  is  something  so  shabby 
in  being  honest  on  compulsion. 

Our  own  acquaintance  with  County 
Courts  is  entirely  casual ;  and  we 
state  the  fact  in  order  that  the 
reader  may  acquit  us  of  having 
derived  any  experience  of  them  in 
the  character  of  a  defendant.  There 
are  about  sixty  of  them  scattered 
through  England  and  Wales;  and 
they  are  all  so  much  alike  that,  if 
you  have  seen  one,  depend  upon  it 
the  other  fifty-nine  are  not  worth 


456 


Cotiuti/  Courts. 


the  trouble  of  a  visit  In  Midilloscx 
there  are  ei),'!it  inetropolitan  dis- 
tricts ;  —  Wihtmiiisttr,  liroiiipton, 
Mary-li'-lioiu',  Uloomshmy, CU'ik(!ii- 
well,  Slioii'diti'li,  lk)\v,  and  Whito- 
cliapc  I.  On  the  Snrny  side  of 
London,  Wandswortli  is  the  only 
distiict  that  mjoys  the  luxury  of  a 
County  Court.  We  Imve  only  looked 
in  at  one  of  these  redoiihtaltlc  esta- 
hlishnients, '  the  name  of  which  '— a.s 
the  jR-nny-a-liners  put  it  —  'for 
uhvious  nasous  we  conceal.'  It  is 
not  without  a  slijrht  feeling  of 
nervous  awe  that  the  freest  and 
nio.st  indein-ndent  Briton  enters  a 
sanctuary  where  the  practice  of  the 
law  is  carried  on  ;  but  we  soon  shako 
it  off,  and  leave  tlie  task  of  wincing 
to  the  galled  jade,  in  the  full  cmti- 


denco  that  our  own  withers  are 
un wrung.  Our  acute  seii.se  of  the 
ridiculous  gmdually  assume-!  a  mas- 
tery over  our  veneration  for  justice. 
Wo  l)egin  to  notice  things,  and 
everything  that  we  notice  makes 
US  laugh.  Our  companion,  who  is 
even  more  utterly  ilestituto  of  shame 
than  ourselves,  jiroduees  a  small 
note-book,  and  connuences  making 
sketches— probably  with  a  distant 
view  of  '  Loudon  Society '  in  his 
mind's  eye.  He  caricatures  the 
judge,  to  bepin  with ;  and  we  also 
mean  to  have  a  fhng  at  the  judge. 

His  life  must  be  rather  a  hard 
one ;  there  is  not  much  dignity  in 
deciding  these  paltry  t'ounty  Court 
squabbles.  Probably,  the  most  equit- 
able method  would  consist  in  taking 


a  copper  coin  of  the  realm,  tossing 
it  graccfnlly  into  the  air, and  leaving 
the  rights  of  the  case  to  chance. 
The  head  of  (^ueen  Victoria  might 
establish  the  justict;  of  the  plaintiff's 
claim,  and  the  figure  of  Hritanriia 
might  ab.solve  the  defendant.  One 
can  scarcely  help  speculating  upon 
the  private  tinancial  habits  of  a 
fimctionary  who  is  called  upon  to 
give  so  n  any  judgments  respecting 
debt  and  cre<iit.  Could  a  judge 
have  a  summons  in  his  own  court 
wrvf  d  ujKin  him,  sujijinsing  that  ho 
declined  jmying  a  hairdrew-er  for 
his  last  ( Hii'ial  wig?  Thin  catas- 
trophe is  not  likely  to  o<'cur,  wo 
Hoik;,  seeing  that  thest-  worthies 
never  receive  less  than  twelve  hun- 


dred pounds  a  year  for  their  labours. 
The  olhce  is  a  fnthold  for  life, 
inability  or  mislnhavi'  \ir  consti- 
tuting the  only  liabilities  to  removal. 
May  wo  venture  to  siiggi  st,  by  the 
way,  that  the  cause  of  justice  would 
lo.se  nothing  (and  nii^ht  gain  a 
little)  by  having  tlii'  County  Court 
judges  occiusioriidly  shifted  from  one 
district  inU)  another?  It  is  just 
p)ssiblo  that,  through  constantly 
hearing  the  same  attorneys  and 
barristers,  the  hearer  mi>.'lit  imtabe 
just  the  h'ast  prejudice  in  the  world  ; 
he  might  now  and  then  wngh  the 
i/itiirul  merit«  of  a  counsel  (whom 
he  knows  perfectly)  rather  than  the 
jfirtirnlur  mtrits  of  a  case  fof  which 
lie  knows  nothing  txforehand),  and 


County  Courts. 


457 


give  judgment  aconrrlingly.  If  this 
reason  is  not  a  sufficient  one,  we  can 
give  another;  the  change  of  scene 
would  render  a  judge's  work  less 
monotonous,  and  consequently  more 
endurable. 

The  usher  is  very  solemn,  and 
very  impoqng.  He  rather  reminds 
US  of  the  iiumortal  footmen  that 
poor  John  Leech  drew  by  the  dozen. 
Leech's  footmen  were  always  large, 
raw-boned  men,  with  full  whiskers; 
this  description  applies  exactly  to 
the  County  Court  usher.  He  is 
getting  bald  in  the  service  of  jus- 
tice, and  his  remaining  hairs  are 


slightly  silvered ;  but  he  is  proud  of 
the  fact,  and  would  rather  dye  than 
wear  a  wig.  From  a  long  aud  un- 
varied career  spent  in  the  County 
Court  line  of  business,  the  usher 
seems  to  have  imbibed  a  profound 
contempt  for  money ;  he  looks  upon 
it  simply  as  the  root  of  all  sum- 
monses. We  should  like  to  see 
anybody  offer  him  a  half-crown  ;  he 
would  probably  treat  it  as  con- 
temptuously as  Julius  Caesar  treated 
a  whole  one,  putting  it  by  with  the 
back  of  his  hand,  in  the  good  old 
traditional  manner.  Doubtless,  the 
usher  is  a  man  of  tolerable  sub- 


stance, who  pays  his  way  regularly, 
and  has  no  dealings  with  the  bailiff, 
save  amicable  ones ;  but  even  grey 
locks  cannot  ensure  him  against 
being  caricatured. 

We  have  been  lucky  enough— or 
sufficiently  unlucky— to  see  the 
softer  sex  engaged  in  pecuniary 
disputes.  Ladies  are  tenacious  in 
these  matters;  much  more  tena- 
cious, we  fancy,  than  the  lords  of 
creation.  Convince  one  of  these 
gentle  creatures  that  she  owes 
another  of  these  gentle  creatures 
money,  and  she  will  pay  it;  but 
the  difficulty  of  convincing  her 
almost  amounts  to  an  impossibility. 
If  Mrs.  Lockstitch  sells  Mrs.  Hem- 


ming a  sewing  machine,  it  is  the 
obvious  duty  of  the  latter  lady  to  pay 
for  it.  Well  and  good ;  but  suppose 
that  the  instrument  shoulit  prove 
to  be  deficient  in  every  quality  that 
makes  a  sewing  machine  respectable 
— what  then  ?  The  elements  of  liti- 
gation are  at  once  let  loose.  Mrs  L. 
wants  the  money,  and  Mrs.  H.  does 
not  want  the  goods ;  but  the  goods 
have  been  bought,  and  it  is  urged, 
with  some  faint  shadow  of  propriety, 
that  they  ought  consequently  to  be 
paid  for.  The  difference  of  opinion 
is  referred,  very  properly,  to  a 
County  Court,  where  the  plaintiff 
and  the  defendant  indulge  in  mutual 
recriminations,  of  a  class  which  it 


458 


CouiUy  Courts. 


would  bo  gross  flattery  to  call  irre- 
levant. Judtimciit  is  jnol'aldy  given 
in  favour  of  the  plaintilV,  in  which 
case  the  dcfciiiiant  will  go  tlown  to 
her  grave  with   a    lirm    belief  in 


the  mal  administration  of  justice 
tlirougiiout  (Jriat  Britain.  Should 
tlio  victory  be  derided  for  the  de- 
fendant, the  piainlilf  will  dtscend 
into  the  vale  of  years  with  a  griev- 


ance upon  her  mind;  that  County 
Court  business  will  figure  as  a  pro- 
minent topic  at  neiglibouring  tea- 
parties  for  the  remainder  of  her 
natural  life. 


The  shopkeeper  figures  largely  in 
County  Courts.  Wieiiever  he  can 
spare  a  moment  from  liis  iahours  at 
the  counter,  tie  ajipears  to  spend  it 
in  issuing   Bummonsts.      Cliemists 


are  great  frinncrs  in  this  respcrt; 
they  stem  to  physic  their  cu8tomerH 
into  a  state  of  rude  health  on 
purpose   to  persecute  them  about 


money  immediately  nfterwnrds,  just 
08  the  cannibiils  fatten  their  pri- 
sfjners  for  eating.  Every  bottle  is 
a  mtiaked  battery,  and  every  pill  a 


County  Courts. 


459 


pitfall.  Tailors  and  wine  merchants 
are  also  in  the  habit  of  getting  very 
troublesome  aV)out  tlieir  accounts. 
Shopkeepers  who  appeal  to  the  law 
are  generally  short.,  and  generally 


stout.  They  have  a  confident  manner 
about  them ;  for  where  is  the  trades- 
man who  dares  to  appear  as  plaintiff 
without  baving  right  upon  his  side? 
It  requires  a  man  of  somo  imagin- 


ation to  do  tliat,  and  imagination  is 
an  utter  stranger  to  trade.  The  shop- 
keeper speaks  very  softly, '  with  bated 
breath  and  whispering  humbleness/ 


whenever  he  makes  his  appearance 
in  a  County  Court.  He  never  seems 
to  demand  his  money,  but  merely  to 
suggest  that  he  should  rather  like 


to  have  it  than  otherwise.  We  need 
scarcely  remark  that  he  generally 
succeeds  in  getting  it. 

The  working  man,  who  reads  his 
morning  papers  with  assiduity,  and 


entertains  the  strongest  possible 
opinions  on  the  subject  of  Eeform, 
occasionally  gets  into  difficulties 
that  require  the  interference  of  a 
County  Court  for  their  solution.  He 


•160 


Counii/  Coxirtt. 


is  just  clever  ononph  to  pot  paid  for 
his  work  l)orore!mnd  now  and  tlicn, 
and  the  piss(s<ion  of  lucre  some- 
times iimkts  liim  too  proud  or  too 
lazy  to  finish  it.  As  a  defendant  ho 
requires  a  pood  deal  of  convincing; 
havinp  ]>roli;it)ly  studied  Mr.  John 
Stuart  Mill  more  as  a  jujlitician  than 
a  teacher  of  abstract  lopic.  In  the 
present  instance  he  is  tall  and  thin ; 
and  the  latter  pcculiurify  is  perhaps 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  of  his 
having  walked  a  considerable  dis- 
tance in  every  procession  that  has 
been  organized  by  the  Reform  League 
since  the  commencement  of  the  agi- 
tation. One  is  mther  sorry  to  see 
him  in  a  County  Court,  on  con- 
sideration of  his  highly  probable 
wife  and  family. 

The  attorney  swarms  at  County 
Courts;  ho  is,  of  course,  well  up  in 
every  possible  description  of  claim, 
and  reatly  with  every  possible  de- 
scription of  defence.  Defences  are, 
of  course,  multitudinous;  the  most 
TiBual  ones  being — 


1.  Set-off. 

2.  Infancy. 

3.  Coverture. 

4.  Statute  of  Limitations. 

5.  Bankruptcy. 

6.  In-olvcncy. 

'Set-oiY'  implies  a  case  of  mutual 
debtl)etween  plaintiff  and  defendant. 
The  other  grounds  of  defence  men- 
tioned need  no  explanation.  Some- 
times the  attorney  engages  a  bar- 
rister as  counsel,  but  more  frequently 
acts  himself  for  one  of  the  parties 
in  the  suit.  His  appearance  is  as 
a  rule  semidcgal,  and  semi-military : 
he  is  bald-headed,  and  wears  a 
moustache. 

It  is  impossible  to  convoy  much 
information  about  County  Court 
practice  without  growing  tedious. 
Allow  us,  in  conclusion,  to  suggest 
that  the  reader  had  better  Ik)  con- 
tent with  what  we  liavc  told  him 
than  seek  actual  experience  for 
himself,  either  as  plaintiff  or  de- 
fendant, especially  avoiding  the 
latter  position. 


461 


ANECDOTE  AND  GOSSIP  ABOUT  CLUBS. 


PART  III. 


f'pHE  '  Spectator  '  seems  to  have 
J.  issued  secret  commissions  for  the 
discovery  of  clubs  of  an  unusual  or 
piquant  cliaiactcr;  and  by  the  re- 
searches of  his  spies  was  made  aware 
of  the  existence  of  a  Club  of  Parish 
Clerks,  which  met  that  its  members 
might  concoct  in  comfort  their  bills 
of  mortality,  and  drink  to  the 
memory  of  the  departed.  A  Law- 
yers' Club,  also,  was  unearthed, 
whose  practice  it  was  to  meet 
stealthily  for  the  purpose  of  dis- 
cussing the  respective  cases  which 
each  member  happened  to  have  on 
hand.  The  object  of  this  Club  is 
unhandsomely  represented  to  have 
been  the  furtherance  of  fraud  and 
deceit— an  object  which  we  happily 
know  to  have  been  impossible. 

There  existed  a  Club  of  poor  crea- 
tures who  could  only  meet  by  the 
sufferance  of  their  wives,  or  as  they 
furtively  evaded  their  jurisdiction. 
But  the  Club  of  the  Henpecked  has 
been  long  defunct ;  that  is,  it  expired 
just  a  month  before  the  marriage  of 
the  most  exemplary  matron  who 
reads  this  article,  and  shows  no 
symptoms  of  revival  so  long  as  her 
daughters  are  inclined  so  well  as  at 
present  to  follow  in  her  footsteps. 

The  Henpecked  Club  was  chiefly 
worthy  of  notice  because  it  served 
to  introduce  an  association  in  which 
the  ladies  are  brought  into  con- 
siderable prominence ;  and  so  helps 
us  over  the  chasm  which  would 
otherwise  separate  male  and  female 
societies.  We  owe  to  the  'Spec- 
tator' the  registration  of  a  few 
Ladies'  Clubs,  only  one  or  two  of 
which,  as  his  account  of  them  was 
evidently  written  at  a  time  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  better  employed, 
we  intend  to  honour  with  a  momen- 
tary notice.  The  Club  of  She- 
Romps  pretty  sufficiently  indicates 
its  objects,  which  were  to  play  high, 
to  quarrel,  to  break  fans,  tear  petti- 
coats, flounces,  furbelows,  and  to 
destroy  all  other,  even  the  most 
sacred,  curiosities  of  female  apparel ; 
and  once  a  month  to  demolish  a 
prude,  inveigled  for  that  purpose 


into  their  place  of  meeting.  The 
'  Spectator'  was  invited  to  pay  them 
a  visit,  any  rule  forbidding  the  ad- 
mission of  a  gentleman  notwith- 
standing ;  but  from  a  mingled  feeling 
of  fear  and  gallantry  he  forbore  to 
avail  himself  of  the  flattering  invi- 
tation. 

The  Widow  Club  consisted,  on  the 
30th  June,  1 7 14,  of  nine  experienced 
dames,  who  took  their  places  once 
a  week  about  a  large  oval  table.  It 
may  be  described  generally  as  an 
association  of  Wives  of  Bath,  bent 
on  contracting  matrimony  as  often 
as  they  commodious! y  and  profitably 
could.  Kx  una  disce  omncs;  I\Irs. 
President  was  a  person  who  had 
successfully  disposed  of  six  hus- 
bands, and  was  determined  forth- 
with to  take  a  seventh,  beiug  of 
opinion  that  there  was  as  much 
virtue  in  the  touch  of  a  seventh 
husband  as  of  a  seventh  son.  The 
great  object  of  each  member,  in 
short,  was  to  achieve  her  own  dis- 
qualification. 

Manchester  men  are  nearly  as 
celebrated  as  are  ancient  mariners 
for  spinning  a  yarn.  A  particular 
one  which  came  into  our  hands  a 
few  months  ago  seems  to  have  got 
a  double  twist  in  it— the  twist  first 
of  falsity,  and  secund  of  ill-nature. 
It  is  the  manufacture  of  the  Loudon 
correspondent  of  the  '  Manchester 
Examiner,'  and  is  entirely  apropos 
of  Ladies'  Clubs  of  the  very  last  year 
in  this  very  city  of  London.  '  We 
have,'  he  gravely  informed  his  Lan- 
cashire cZjej^/e/e  last  April,  'as  you 
know,  been  getting  tolerably  fast  in 
our  manners  at  the  West-End.  The 
present  season  has  witnessed  a  fur- 
ther development  of  feminine  inde- 
pendence. "  Ladies'  Clubs  "  are  this 
year  the  "  go  "  in  the  most  fashion- 
able circles.  The  young  and  un- 
married ladies  do  not  take  part  in 
them  to  any  great  extent ;  the 
"  frisky  matrons "  there  reign  su- 
preme. Although  these  assemblies, 
which  are  held,  as  a  general  rule,  in 
the  afternoon,  at  the  houses  of  the 
members,  are  called  "  Ladies'  Clubs," 


462 


Anerdvte  and  Gossip  about  Clnhs. 


pcntlcraen  arc  not  cxchulod.  A 
ticket  to  the  "Si-tifflii-s,"  or  to  the 
"  Jolly  Dops," — tiiose  Jiro  the  names 
of  two  of  tho  most  fiishionahlo— is 
rcckoiiod  a  preat  favour,  and  can 
only  l>u  obtaiuud  hy  those  who  aro 
in  hif,'h  favour  with  presidiniJ^autlio- 
ritios,  amongst  wiioin  more  than  one 
duchess  (/ccupies  ii  jn'oininent  posi- 
tion. The  auiusements  consist  of 
conversation  and  smoking,  the  Indies 
doing  their  j)art  manfully  witli  their 
cigarettes.  To  give  you  some  idea 
of  tho  freedom  of  maimers  which 
those  ri'idiiiiiis  aro  intended  to  ])ro- 
mote,  I  may  statothatthe"Scul11eis'' 
are  so  called  Ixicau.se  at  their  feather- 
ings chairs  and  tallies  aro  bani>htd 
from  the  room,  and  the  members  sit 
or  lounge  on  the  floor  or  on  low 
divans.' 

We  can  fancy  '  Our  London  Cor- 
respondent '  cottoning  with  some 
inebriated  footman,  who,  out  of 
gratitude  for  tho  half-pint  of  porter 
wdiich  he  owed  to  the  correspon- 
dent's nmniticence,  told  hiai  a  secret 
which  he  did  not  know  himself.  We 
at  least  do  not  intend  to  believe  the 
paragraph,  until  tho  writer  of  it  can 
produce  evidence  that  he  has  him- 
self been  "scuffled"  out  of  some 
one  or  other  of  the  meeting-rooms 
of  the  Club,  been  smoked  by  his 
Anonymas  the  duchesses,  or  demo- 
lished a  li  mode  fhs  She-Ilomps,  by 
the  most  able-bodied  of  tho  sister- 
hood. 

•  There  is  one  club  of  tho  kind 
which  Mr.  Timbs  has  the  temerily 
to  Cidl  tho  '  KL'centric,'  which  claims 
recognition  at  our  hands,  becans-e 
the  particulars  about  it  were  fur- 
nished to  the  'Guardian,'  Juno  i6, 
171 3.  I'y  f>iit!  of  the  greatest  of  tho 
class  from  which  it  recruited  itself 
—Alexander  Pope,  to  wit.  We 
alludo  to  tho  Club  of  Little  Men, 
which  was  iuslituted  on  the  shortest 
day  of  theycar,  and  the  inauguration 
of  whieh  was  to  bi;  connneniorateJ 
annually  over  a  dish  of  s/in'mpH. 
Memlier.H  wore  not  to  exceed  five 
feet  in  height,  and  they  were  re- 
quired to  glory  in,  rather  than  to  be 
ashamed  of,  their  pigmy  propor- 
tions, under  penalties  varjing  ac- 
r/>rding  to  tho  enormity  of  their 
breach  of  discipline.  A  fundamen- 
tal  principle  of   tho  club,  and  a 


unanimous  belief  of  tho  wholo  of  its 
members  wa-*,  that  as  the  human 
raje  has  constantly  l)een  decreasing 
in  stature  from  the  beginning  until 
now,  it  is  obviously  the  design  of 
Nature  that  men  should  bo  littlo; 
'and  we  believe,'  says  Bob  Short, 
whom  Pope  pcrstmafcs  in  his  epistle 
to  Nestor  Ironside,  E.sq.,  'that  all 
human  kind  shall  at  last  grow  down 
to  perfection,  tha*;  is  to  say,  ba  re- 
duced to  our  own  measure.' 

In  spite  of  the  very  obvious 
soundness  of  this  theory,  several 
infatuated  giants  took  it  into  their 
heads  to  open  an  opposition  Club  of 
Tall  Men.  This  club  soon  num- 
bered some  thirty  members;  and 
met  under  the  presidency  of  a  Scotch 
Highlander,  whose  stature  brought 
him  '  within  an  inch  of  a  show.' 
The  smallest  man  in  the  club,  mea- 
suring only  six  feet  and  a  half,  was, 
on  account  of  his  diminutiveness, 
ajjpointed  to  odiciate  as  secretary. 
'  If  you  saw  us  all  together,'  boasts 
this  worthy,  'you  would  take  U8 
for  the  sons  of  Anak.  Our  meetings 
are  held,  like  the  old  Gothic  parlia- 
ments, sail  ilio,  in  open  air  ;  but  we 
shall  make  an  interest,  if  we  can, 
that  we  may  hold  our  assemblies  in 
Westminster  Jbdl,  when  it  is  not 
term  time.  I  must  add,  to  the 
honour  of  our  club,  that  it  is  one  of 
our  society  wdio  is  now  lluding  out 
the  longitude.  The  device  of  our 
public  seal  is  a  crane  grasping  a 
pigmy  in  his  right  foot.' 

The  laurtate  of  the  Club  of  Littlo 
]ilen  is  said  to  have  been  one  Mr. 
Disticli ;  and  if  he  presumed  to 
attack  the  Anakim  in  pentameters, 
he  and  his  whole  fraternity  were  to 
be  demoli-hed  l)y  (loir  poet  in 
Alexandrines. 

Other  clubs  distinguished  by  the 
'Guanlian  '  are  the  Silent  Club  and 
the  Terril)lo  Club.  The  incnibera 
of  tho  latter  were  shrewdly  suk- 
pected  of  veiling  their  natural 
cowardice  behind  an  air  of  swagger 
and  fury.     Tho  following  are  the 

'  Articles  to  he  (i<i I  (III  upon  hy  the 
mcmhi  rs  of  tlic  Trrrihlr  (lith: 

'  luiprimia,  That  the  club  do  meet 
at  midnight,  in  the  great  armoury 
hall  in  tho  Tower,  if  leave  can  bo 
obtained,  the  first  Monday  in  every 
month. 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


463 


'II.  That  tho  president  bo  seated 
npon  a  drum  at  tlio  upper  end  of 
the  tabic,  accoutred  witli  a  liehnet, 
a  ba'^kf't-hilt  sword,  and  a  buff  belt. 

'  III.  That  tlie  pro^^ident  be  always 
obliged  to  provide,  for  the  first  and 
standing  dish  of  tho  club,  a  pasty 
of  l)ull-bcef,  baked  in  a  target  made 
for  that  purpose. 

'IV.  That  the  members  do  cut 
their  meat  with  bayonets  instead  of 
knives. 

'  V.  That  every  member  do  sit  to 
the  table,  and  eat  with  his  hat,  his 
sword,  and  his  s'o'^'es  on. 

'  VI.  That  there  be  no  liquor 
drunk  but  rack- punch,  quickened 
with  brandy  and  gunpowder. 

'  VII.  That  a  large  mortar  be 
made  use  of  for  a  punch-bowl.' 

Tiie  succe^^sors  of  the  Mohock 
Club,  and  other  like  associations  for 
the  cultivation  of  outlawry,  took  up 
a  position  of  more  cold-l)looded  op- 
position to  wliatever  was  reputable 
in  morals,  decent  in  manners,  and 
venerable  in  religion.  Clubs,  of 
which  b!a?pht'njy  and  licentious- 
ness were  the  avowed  bonds,  were 
instituted  in  alarming  numbers  by 
men  whose  ambition  it  seeuied  to  be 
to  set  up  on  earth  a  visible  kingdom 
of  the  devil.  One  of  thc?e  infamous 
societies  was  known  by  the  name  of 
the  Hell- fire  Club,  and  boasted  the 
brilliant,  unprincipled,  and  ill-fated 
Duke  of  Wharton  amongst  its  badly- 
pre-eminent  members.  But  we  are 
not  going  to  rake  up  the  volcanic 
ashes  of  such  clubs  as  these.  Their 
archives  may  be  left,  for  us,  to  rest 
in  the  fondly -regretful  memory  of 
their  departed  and  unsainted  mem- 
bers. 

Before  we  bid  a  long  fiirewell, 
however,  to  the  Clubs  which  sprang 
lip  and  died  a'lout  the  time  of  the 
'  Spectator,'  we  ought  to  devote  a 
few  words  to  those  peculiar  po- 
litical a?sociati;ins  knowm  as  Blug- 
House  Clubs,  t!;,e  parent  society  of 
which  met  in  a  great  hall  in  Long 
Acre  during  the  winter  season  on 
the  evenings  of  Wednesday  and 
Saturday.  The  Club  consisted  of 
gentlemen,  lawyers,  and  politicians, 
to  the  nnmlier  of  over  a  hundred, 
and  was  named  from,  the  fact  that 
the  members  imbibed  their  liquor 
—which  was  limited  to  ale -out  of 


separate  mugs,  which,  it  is  said, 
were  fashioned  on  the  model  of 
Lord  Shaftesbury's  face,  vu/fjuriter, 
'  ugly  mug.'  Hence  the  euphonious 
designation. 

Early  in  the  eighteenth  century 
the  president  of  the  Club  is  de- 
scribed as  a  grave  old  gentleman, 
in  his  own  grey  hair,  and  armed 
with  the  reverence  due  to  nearly 
ninety  years  of  life.  His  seat  was  an 
arm-chair  raised  above  the  level  of 
those  of  the  other  members,  whom 
it  was  his  duty  to  keep  in  order  and 
decorum.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
room  a  harp  discoursed  it-;  eloquent 
music,  which  was  occasionally  in- 
termitted for  the  songs  of  various 
individuals  of  the  company.  Al- 
though at  this  epoch  the  Club  were 
such  exclusive  devotees  of  harmony 
and  good  fellowship  that  politics 
seemed  to  be  pro?cril)ed  l^y  their 
mere  non-necessity,  tho  Mug- House 
by-and-by  became,  in  consequence 
of  the  change  of  dynasty  Jind  the 
different  sentiments  thereupon,  '  a 
rallving-jDlace  for  the  most  virulent 
political  antagonism.'  The  Tories 
had  it  all  their  own  way  with  the 
mob,  and  it  seemed  advisable  for  the 
friends  of  the  Hanoverian  succes- 
sion to  establish  meeting-places 
throughout  the  metropolis,  where 
loyal  and  well  -  affected  citizens 
might  assemble  to  keep  each  other 
in  countenance,  and  serve  as  centres 
for  the  diffusion  of  their  principles. 
Hence  it  canie  to  pass  that  London 
was  colonised  by  numbers  of  Mng- 
House  Clubs,  which  were  established 
as  affiliated  societies  in  St.  John's 
Lane;  at  the  Eoebuck,  in  Cheap- 
side;  at  Mrs.  Eead's,  in  Salisbury 
Court,  Fleet  Street;  at  the  Harp,  in 
Tower  Street ;  and  the  Roebuck,  in 
Whitechapel.  Besides  these,  others 
were  instituted  in  less  central  lo- 
calities—at the  Ship,  in  Tavistock 
Street,  Covent  Garden ;  at  the  Black 
Horse,  in  Queen  Street,  near  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Fields  ;  at  the  Nag's 
Head,  in  James  Street,  Covent  Gar- 
den; at  the  Fleece,  in  Biirleigh 
Street,  near  Exeter  Change ;  at  the 
Hand  and  Tench,  near  the  Seven 
Dials.  There  w'ere  several  in  Spital- 
fields,  frequented  by  French  re- 
fugees ;  one  in  Southwark  Park ; 
one  in  the  Artillery  Ground ;  and 


4C4 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


another  at  tlio  ilagpic,  now  tlio 
^lappio  and  Stump,  in  llio  Old 
IJailoy.  '  At  all  tlicse  houses,'  we 
are  iiifnnuocl  by  Mr.  Tiinhs,  'it  was 
customary  in  the  forenoon  to  exliibit 
the  wl  ole  of  the  mugs  l)elonf;inp  to 
the  tstiihlibhmcnt  in  a  row  in  front 
of  the  house.'  The  members  of 
thcFc  8(K'ieties  offered  their  services 
to  k((  p  in  order  the  mob,  who 
nightly  took  possession  of  the  streets 
in  a  most  disorderly  and  seditious 
niaumr;  and  the  collisions  of  the 
Jacobite  raliblo  with  the  loyal  ir- 
regulars of  the  Mug-IIouses  occupy 
a  by  no  means  inconsiderable  por- 
tion of  the  politico-social  records  of 
the  time. 

In  tlie  autumn  of  171 5  the  Loyal 
Club,  in  session  at  the  Roebuck,  in 
Cheapside,  burnt  the  Pretender  in 
effigy  ;  and  on  the  4th  of  November 
in  the  same  year  the  Jacobite  rabble 
repaid  the  insult  in  kind  by  burn- 
ing King  ^Villiam  lit.  in  the  Old 
Jewry.  Tlie  Mug-llouse  gentry 
came  to  the  rescue,  cudgelled  the 
disaffected,  and  bore  off  the  image 
of  Macaulay's  hero  in  triumph  to 
their  head-quarters,  the  lioebuck. 
Of  course  the  return  com])Iiment 
was  paid  on  the  morrow,  November 
5th,  a  day  sacred  to  political  and 
religious  dissensions.  The  riot  of 
Guy  Fawkes'  Day  being  quieted, 
there  wius  peace  for  nearly  a  fort- 
night, when  other  and  widespread 
riots  arose  in  consequence  of  the 
Lo\al  Society  meeting  at  the  Roe- 
buck to  celebrate  the  accession  of 
Queen  Klizalteth,  and  of  the  mob 
assembling  in  St.  !Martin's-le- Grand 
for  the  pMri)ose  of  burning  the  effi- 
gies of  King  William,  King  George, 
and  tlie  l)ukeof  ihirlborough.  A 
gent  Till  colli.sion  of  forces  super- 
vened ;  iiiid  this,  the  principal  dis- 
turbaiic<;  of  that  year,  was  (juelled 
by  the  1/ird  Mayor,  who  caused  the 
dispersal  (if  the  rabble  with  the  loss 
of  one  of  their  men  done  to  (kath  by 
a  gun-shot  wound  a.s  ho  was  head- 
ing a  jtarty  in  an  attack  uj)on  the 
Roebuck. 

The  n(xt  year,  1716,  saw  a  re- 
newal of  liostilitic-s.  The  loyalty  of 
the  Mug-Ibiuse  Clubs  was  stimu- 
lated liy  tin  ir  iK)et8,  and  tlxir  M)ngH 
were  extensively  circulated.  >bir- 
rowbones  and  cleavers  gave  forth 


their  exhilarating  strains,  in  order 
to  keep  uj)  the  cnthu.^iiism  of  the 
Jacobites;  and  thetigiit  was  further 
empha-sized  on  eitlur  side  by  oaken 
cudgels  and  bjudgeon.s  pokers, 
tongs,  and  tire-shovel.s. 

Some  cold  water  was  thrown  on 
the  courage  of  the  seditious  un- 
washed wlien  live  of  their  numlwr 
were  convicted  of  riot  and  rebellion, 
and  sentenced  to  be  )iut  to  death  at 
Tyburn ;  and  a  few  years  saw  Lon- 
don completely  leUa^ed  from  the 
factious  outrages  with  which  its 
streets  had  been  infested.  The 
Mug-IIousc  Club.*,  with  this  restor- 
ation of  ordtr,  lost  their  t-igiiilicance 
and  their  occupation,  and  became 
no  longer  venerable  or  worthy  of  a 
chronicle. 

We  come  now  to  a  knot  of  Clubs 
whoso  lustre  is  still  fresh  in  the 
memories  of  contemporary  men — 
Clubs  which,  founded  on  a  basis  of 
political  or  fashionable  affinities, 
find  their  most  distinctive  glory  in 
the  traditions  of  their  colossal  gam- 
bling transactions. 

The  Cocoa  Tree,  which  was  the 
Tory  Chocolate- House  of  the  days 
of  Queen  Anne,  tiist  appears  as  a 
Cluli  about  the  time  of  the  attempt 
of  the  young  Pretender  to  recover 
the  throne  ot  bis  aiiie-tors.  It  was 
here  that  Gibbon,  in  1762,  encoun- 
tered '  twenty  or  thirty  of  perhaps 
the  first  men  in  the  kingdom  in 
point  of  fashion  anil  fortune  sujiping 
at  little  tables  covered  with  a  nap- 
kin, in  the  middle  of  a  coffee-room, 
upon  a  bit  of  coKl  meat,  or  a  sand- 
wich, and  drinking  a  glass  of  i)Uiich.' 
Walpole,  writing  toi\I.inn,  February 
6,  17S0,  records  a  then  recent  in- 
stance of  high  play.  '  Within  this 
week,'  ho  says,  'there  has  l)cen  a 
cast  at  hazard  at  the  Cocoa-Tree  (in 
St.  James's  Street;,  the  dillerenco  of 
which  amounted  to  one  hundred 
and  fourscore  thousand  pounds. 
Mr.  OBirne,  an  Irish  gimister,  had 
won  one  hiuidrcd  thousand  pounds 
of  a  young  Mr.  Harscy,  of  Chigwell, 
just  started  info  an  estate  by  his 
elder  brother's  death.  O'Hirne  .said, 
"  You  can  never  pny  me."  "  I  can," 
said  the  \outh  ;  "  mv  estate  will  sell 
for  the  del)t."  "No,"  niid  O. ;  'I 
will  win  the  thousand  -you  shall 
throw  for  the  odd  ninety."  '   ilarvey 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


466 


was  fortunate  enough  to  come  off 
winner. 

x^lmack's  Club  was  established  in 
Pall  Mall,  in  1764,  'by  twenty- 
seven  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  in- 
cluding the  Duke  of  Eoxbnrghe, 
the  Duke  of  Portland,  the  Earl  of 
Strathmore,  Mr.  Crowe  (afterwards 
Lord  Crewe),  and  Mr.  C.  J.  Fox.' 
The  following  are  half-a-dozen  culled 
from  the  original  Eules  of  the 
Club  :— 

'  No  gaming  in  the  eating-room, 
except  tossing  up  for  reckonings,  on 
penalty  of  paying  the  whole  bill  of 
the  members  present. 

'Dinuer  shall  be  served  up  ex- 
actly at  half-past  four  o'clock,  and 
the  bill  shall  be  brought  in  at 
seven. 

'Almack  shall  sell  no  wines  in 
bottles,  that  the  Club  aj^proves  of, 
out  of  the  house. 

'  Any  member  of  this  Society  that 
shall  become  a  candidate  for  any 
other  Club  (old  White's  excepted), 
shall  be,  ipso  facto,  excluded,  and 
his  name  struck  out  of  the  book. 

'  That  every  person  playing  at  the 
new  guinea  table  do  keep  fifty  gui- 
neas before  him. 

*  That  every  person  playing  at 
the  twenty  guinea  table  do  not  keep 
less  than  twenty  guineas  before 
him.' 

Walpole,  in  a  letter  to  ]\Iann, 
February  2,  1770,  says  that  'the 
gaming  at  Almack's,  which  has 
taken  the  p«s  of  White's,  is  worthy 
the  decline  of  our  empire,  or  com- 
monwealth— which  you  please.  The 
young  men  of  the  age  lose  ten,  fif- 
teen, twenty  thousand  pounds  in  an 
evening  there.  Lord  Stavordale,  not 
one-and-tweuty,  .lost  11,000/.  there 
last  Tuesday,  but  recovered  it  by 
one  great  hand  at  hazard.  He 
swore  a  great  oath,  "  Now,  if  I 
had  been  playing  deep,  I  might 
have  won  millions."  His  cousin, 
Charles  Fox,  shines  equally  there 
and  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
He  was  twenty  -  one  yesterday 
se'nnight,  and  is  already  one  of  our 
best  speakers.  Yesterday  he  was 
made  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty.' 
'The  play,'  remarks  Mr.  Timbs, 
*  was  certainly  high — only  for  rou- 
leaus of  50/.  each,  and  generally 
there  was  10,000/.  in  specie  on  the 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  liXV. 


table.  The  gamesters  began  by 
pulling  off  their  embroidered  clothes, 
and  put  on  frieze  greatcoats,  or 
turned  their  coats  inside  outwards 
for  luck.  They  put  on  pieces  of 
leather  (such  as  are  worn  by  foot- 
men when  they  clean  the  knives)  to 
save  their  laced  ruffles;  and  to 
guard  their  eyes  from  the  light,  and 
to  prevent  tumbling  their  hair,  wore 
high-crowned  straw  hats  with  broad 
brims,  and  adorned  with  flowers 
and  ribbons ;  masks  to  conceal  their 
emotions  when  they  played  at 
quinz.  Each  gamester  had  a  small, 
neat  stand  by  him,  to  hold  his  tea, 
or  a  wooden  bowl,  with  an  edge  of 
ormulu,  to  hold  the  rouleaus.' 

'  Almack's  was  subsequently 
Goosetree's.  In  the  year  1780,  Pitt 
was  then  an  habitual  frequenter, 
and  here  his  personal  adherents 
mustered  strongly.'  Pitt  entered 
into  the  gaming  at  Goosetree's  with- 
out reservation ;  his  friend  Wilber- 
force,  after  a  very  slight  experience 
of  the  losses  and  gains  of  the  faro- 
table,  soon  bade  adieu  to  such  vain 
pursuits. 

Almack's  Assembly  Eooms  were 
opened  the  year  after  the  Club  just 
adverted  to — that  is,  in  1765 — in 
King  Street,  St.  James's.  Here, '  in 
three  very  elegant  new-built  rooms,' 
as  Gilly  Williams  records,  in  a  letter 
to  George  Selwyn, '  there  was  opened 
a  ten-guinea  subscription,  for  which 
you  have  a  ball  and  supper  once  a 
week  for  ten  weeks.  You  may 
imagine  by  the  sum  the  company  is 
chosen;  though,  refined  as  it  is,  it 
will  be  scarce  able  to  put  old  Soho 
(Mrs.  Corneby's)  out  of  countenance. 
The  men's  tickets  are  not  transfer- 
able, so,  if  the  ladies  do  not  like  us, 
they  have  no  opportunity  of  chang- 
ing us,  but  miTst  see  the  same  per- 
sons for  ever.'  And  again:  'Our 
fpmale  Almack's  flourishes  beyond 
description.  Almack's  Scotch  face, 
in  a  bag- wig,  waiting  at  supper, 
would  divert  you,  as  would  his  lady, 
in  a  sack,  making  tea  and  curtsey- 
ing to  the  duchesses.'  This  assem- 
bly is  characterized  by  Walpole, 
five  years  after,  as  '  a  Club  of  both 
sexes,'  of  which  the  foundresses  were 
Mrs.  Fitzroy,  Lady  Pembroke,  Mrs. 
Meynell,  Lady  Molyneux,  Miss  Pel- 
ham,  and  Miss  Lloyd.     And  the 

2  H 


468 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


Totoran  Hortice  proceeds  to  confess, 
with  a  blusliinc;  axndour,  that  he 
was  weak  enou;:;li  to  bo  of  them, 
choosing  mtlior  to  Ih)  idle  tlian 
morosG.  ' I  can  po,'  sajs  ho,  ' to  a 
young  supper  without  forgettinj:^ 
how  much  saud  is  ruu  out  of  tlio 
hour-glass^' 

The  Society,  everybody  knows, 
was  tolerably  exclusive.  'Ladies 
Rochford,  Harrington,  and  Iloldcr- 
ness  were  black-balletl,  as  was  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford,  who  was  subse- 

3aently  admitted.'  Play  here  was 
eep ;  scores  wore  ruinetl,  and  units 
amas.se(l  largo  fortunes  on  the  down- 
fall of  their  friends. 

Early  in  tho  present  century,  Al- 
mack's  was,  on  the  testimony  of 
Captain  Gronow, '  the  seventh  heaven 
of  the  fashionable  world.'  '  Many 
diplomatic  arts,  much  finesse,  and  a 
host  of  intrigues,  were  set  in  motion 
to  get  an  invitation  to  Almack's. 
Very  often  persons,  whose  rank  and 
fortunes  entitled  them  to  the  cnfrt'e 
any  where,  were  excluded  by  the 
cliqueism  of  the  la<ly  patronesses; 
for  tho  female  government  of  Al- 
mack's  was  a  p'u-e  despotism,  and 
subject  to  all  the  caprices  of  despotic 
rule:  it  is  needless  to  add  that,  like 
every  other  •kspotism,  it  was  not 
innocent  of  abiisi-s.  The  fair  ladies 
who  ruled  .supreme  over  this  little 
dancing  and  g(»ssiping  world,  i.^.sued 
a  solemn  proclatnation,  that  no  gen- 
tleman should  ajipcar  at  the  a-sscm- 
blies  without  being  dres.sed  in  knee- 
breeches,  white  cravat,  and  rlmjxriu 
bntn.  On  one  occasion  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  was  al>out  to  a.'-cend  tho 
6tairca.se  of  the  ball-room  dressed  in 
black  trousers,  when  the  vigilant 
Mrs.  Willis,  the  guardian  of  the  es- 
tiiblishmcnt,  stepped  forward,  and 
said,  "  Your  flnu-e  cannot  be  ad- 
mitte<l  in  trousers;"  whereupon  tho 
Duke,  who  had  a  great  respect  for 
orders  and  regulations,  quietly 
walked  away.' 

The  rooms,  called  now  almo.st 
exclusively  Willis's  Rooms,  have 
l)een  accustomed  to  bo  let  for  ball.s, 
concerts,  publie  meetings,  and  for 
iniseellane<mKpurix).Bes.  Tho  'Quar- 
terly Ileview'  has  seen  in  theilecliiio 
of  Almuck's  tho  <lying  out  of  that 
feeling  of  exclusiveness  which  for- 
merly reigned  in  London  society. 


'In  1831  was  published  "Almack's," 
a  novel,  in  which  the  le.ulers  of 
fiishion  were  sketched  with  much 
freedom,  and  identified  in  a  "  Key  to 
Almack's,"  by  Ijeiijamin  Disraeli.' 
But  tho  allusions  to  Almack's  in 
polite  fiction  are,  as  all  our  readers 
may  know,  well  nigh  innumerable. 

JJrookcs's  Club  was  originally  a 
gaming  Club,  '  farmed  at  first  by 
Almack,'  then  taken  by  Brookes,  a 
wine-merchant  and  money-lender, 
described  by  Tickell  as— 

•  Liberal  Hrookcs,  whose  speculative  skill. 
Is  hasty  creilit,  and  a  disttnt  bill  ; 
Who.  niirse<l  In  Clnbs.  disdains  n  vulvar  trade, 
Kxult3  to  trust,  and  l^lushes  to  be  paid.' 

The  Club  was  removed  in  1778 
from  Pall  Mall  to  St.  James's  Street, 
but  it  did  not  answer  well  enough 
to  prevent  !Mr.  Br(X)kes  from  dying 
poor  about  four  years  after.  The 
list  of  members  of  this  Club  is  a 
brilliant  one,  and  is  graced  by  the 
names  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Burke,  Carrick,  Hume,  Horace  Wal- 
pole,  Gibbon,  Sheridan,  and  \VilI)er- 
force.  Tickell,  in  'Lines  from  the 
Hon.  Charles  Fox  to  the  Hon.  John 
Townslieud,  cruising,'  thus  invites 
Townshend  to  share  in  tho  pleasant 
dissipations  of  the  Club : — 

'Soon  as  to  Uroolccs's  thence  thy  footsteps 
bend, 

Wliat  erutulatlons  tliy  approncli  att-^nd! 

See  (jililwn  lap  his  Ikjx— ausplcicius  sign. 

Tliat  cLu-sic  cumpliniout  uiid  evil  cornliine. 

Sec  Ueaiul'-rli's  cIicp1«,  a  tinge  of  rcil  surprise, 

And  friend-hip  gives  what  cruel  health  denies. 

luip<irtant  Town.hend  !  what  can  tlicc  with- 
stand ? 

The  lingering  black  ball  lags  in  Itoolhby'g 
hanii. 

Even  Draper  checks  the  sentimental  slgb  ; 

And  .Smith,  without  on  oatli,  suspends  tho 
die.' 

Endless  would  be  the  record  of 
memorable  sayings  an<l  doings  that 
gather  around  this  Club,  if  wo  had 
room  to  indulge  in  anytliing  like  an 
enumeration.  Hero  is  at  least  an 
epigram  of  Sheridan's,  whoso  gen- 
tlemanly friend,  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
was  an  Imhitiu;  of  Brookes'h.  Wliit- 
brcad,  the  gi'eat  brower,  was  com- 
plaining at  the  CIul)  of  the  conduct 
of  miui.sters  in  levying  a  war-tax  on 
mnlt,  anil  he  had  enli.stwl  the  sym- 
pathy of  tho  entire  company.  Sheri- 
dan attempted  coasolation  by  in- 
diting upon  tho  back  of  a  letter. 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  about  Clubs. 


467 


which  he  handed  to  Whitbread,  the 
following  hues : — 

'  They've  raised  the  price  of  table  drink; 
What  is  tlie  reason,  do  j^ou  think  ? 
The  tax  on  malt  's  the  cause,  I  hear, — 
But  what  has  nudt  to  do  with  beerf' 

Fox,  whether  at  Brookes's  or  else- 
where, was  a  desperate  gamester; 
and  Lord  Tankerville  assured  Mr. 
Kogers  that  Fox  once  played  cards 
with  Fitzpatrick  at  Brookes's  from 
ten  o'clock  at  night  till  near  six 
o'clock  the  next  afternoon,  a  waiter 
standing  by  to  tell  them  *  whose  deal 
it  was,'  they  being  too  sleepy  to 
know.  Fox  once  won  about  eight 
thousand  pounds,  and  one  of  his 
bond- creditors,  who  soon  heard  of 
his  good  luck,  presented  himself  and 
asked  for  payment.  '  Impossible, 
sir,'  replied  Fox ;  '  I  must  first  dis- 
charge my  debts  of  honour.'  The 
bond-creditor  remonstrated .  '  "Well, 
sir,  give  mo  your  bond.'  It  was  de- 
livered to  Fox,  who  tore  it  in  pieces 
and  threw  them  into  the  fire.  '  Now, 
sir,'  said  Fox,  '  my  debt  to  you  is  a 
debt  of  honour,'  and  immediately 
paid  him. 

The  manoeuvre  by  which  Sheri- 
dan, in  collusion  with  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  was,  after  being  black-balled 
by  George  Selwyn  and  Lord  Bess- 
borough,   at    length   admitted   of 
Brookes's,  is  a  little  history,  of  which 
one  version  or  other — for  details  vary 
and  are  hard  to  fix — is  known  to 
most  people.     Equally  familiar,  and 
equally  varying  in  details,  is  the 
story  of  the  admission  of  '  Fighting 
Fitzgerald ;'  but  this  story  has  lately 
been  cruelly  questioned  by  the  scep- 
tics of  the  '  Athenaeum.'    According 
to  the  received   legend,    *  Admhal 
Keith  Stewart  proposed  Fitzgerald 
as  a  member  of  Brookes's  Club,  be- 
cause he    knew  such  a  candidate 
would  not  be  elected.    All  the  balls 
in  the  ballot-box  proved  to  be  black ; 
but  Admiral  Stewart  is  represented 
as  stooping  to  a  falsehood  through 
fear  of  the  great  bully  and  duellist, 
and  sending  him  a  message  that,  as 
there  was  one  black   ball  against 
him,  he  was  not  elected.    Fitzgerald 
affected  to  suppose  that  an  error 
had  occurred,  and  refused  to  believe 
otherwise,  when  successive  messages 
reached  him  that  two,  and,  finally, 


a  totality  of  black  balls  had  rejected 
his  candidateship.  Fitzgerald,  prince 
of  ruffians,  rushed  into  the  club- 
room,  asked  each  gentleman  there  if 
he  had  voted  against  him,  and  we 
['Athenaeum,'  March  3,  1866]  are 
required  to  believe  that  some  of  the 
noblest  men  in  the  land  told  a  lie, 
and  answered  "  Nol"  out  of  fear 
of  a  man  whom,  on  taking  pos- 
session of  a  seat  as  if  he  were  a 
member,  they  treated  with  the 
greatest  contempt,  and  against  whose 
future  attempts  to  enter  they  pro- 
vided stringent  means !  The  whole 
story  is  incredible.' 

Arthur's  Club,  established  more 
than  a  century  since,  is  another  of 
kindred  character.    It  was  located 
in  St.  James's  Street,  and  named 
after  'Mr.  Arthur,   tlae  master  of 
White's    Chocolate-House   in    the 
same  street.'    He  died  in  1761,  and 
the  establishment  passed  into  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Mackreth,  who  had 
married  Arthur's  only  child.    Mack- 
reth had  the  honour  of  representing 
Castle    Eising    in  parliament,  and 
afterwards  achieved  the  distinction 
of  knighthood.     White's  Club,  ori- 
ginally established  as  White's  Choco- 
late-House, on  the  west  side  of  St. 
James's  Street,  dates  from  1698,  and 
in  1733   was  kept  by  Mr.  Arthur, 
mentioned  above.    On  the  28th  of 
April  of  this  year  the  house  was 
consumed  by  fire,  when  young  Ar- 
thur's wife  distinguished  herself  by 
leaping  out  of  a  second-floor  window 
upon  a  feather  bed,  without  sustain- 
ing material  injury.     Hogarth  bor- 
rowed the  idea  of  this  fire  to  give 
edat  to  some  of  the  plates  of  his 
'  Kake's  Progress.'    White's  enjoyed 
rather  an  evil  reputation.    Early  in 
its  history  dashing  highwaymen  had 
there    sipped    their    chocolate   or 
thrown  their  main,  before  proceed- 
ing to  exercise  the  more  technical 
branch  of  their  profession  on  Bag- 
shot  Heath.    And  later,  when  fi'om 
an  open  chocolate-house  it  had  be- 
come a  club-house,  it  was  notorious 
for  its  excessive  indulgence  in  the 
most  reckless  play.    '  I  have  heard,' 
says  Swift,  'that  the  late  Earl  of 
Oxford,  in  the  time  of  his  ministry, 
never  passed  by  White's  Chocolate- 
House  (the  common  rendezvous  of 
infamous  sharpers  and  noble  culhes) 
2  H  2 


468 


Anecdote  and  Gossip  aboiU  Clubs. 


■without  liostowinp  a  cnrpc  upon  tliat 
famous  Aciuli'Uiy  ns  tlio  bauu  of  lialf 
the  Enslish  nobility.' 

'Collcy  CililHT,'  to  quote  Davies's 
'Life  ofGarrick,' '  had  the  lionour 
to  l>c  a  uiouiKt  of  tlic  preat  C'liilt  at 
White's;  an«l  f-o,  I  suppose,  iniu-ht 
any  other  iiuin  wlio  wore  pood  rl.  >tlie3 
and  paid  liis  money  wJicn  he  lost  it. 
But  on  wliat  terms  did  Cil>l)cT  live 
with  tliis  society?  Why,  he  fea.sted 
most  sum])tuously,  as  I  have  lie.ird 
his  friend  Victor  sny,  with  an  air  of 
triumphant  exultation,  with  Mr. 
Arthur  and  liis  wife,  and  gave  a 
trifle  for  his  dinner.  After  he  had 
dined,  when  tlie  clulvroom  door  was 
oixncd,  and  the  Laureate  was  in- 
tro^luoed,  ho  was  saluted  with  loud 
and  joyous  acclamations  of  "  O  Kinp 
Cole!  Come  in,  King  Cole!"  and 
"Welcome,  welcome,  King  Colley!" 
And  this  kind  of  gratulation,  Mr. 
Victor  thought,  was  very  gracious 
and  very  honourable.' 

Bets  were  made  at  White's  on  the 
most  trivial  or  the  most  momentous 
of  events— which  out  of  two  ladies 
■would  tirst  present  her  husband 
■with  an  heir,  or  leave  him  a  widower, 
and  upon  the  contingency  of  the 
said  Avidowcr  marrying  again. 

'One  of  the  youth  at  White's,' 
Walpole  informs  Maim,  '  has  com- 
mitted a  murder,  and  intemls  to 
repeat  it.  lie  betted  1500/.  that  a 
man  could  live  twelve  hours  under 
water;  hiral  a  desperate  fellow, 
sunk  him  in  a  ship,  by  way  of  exi)e- 
riment,  and  both  ship  and  man  have 
not  ai)pearcd  since.  Another  man 
and  ship  are  to  bo  tried  for  their 
lives,  instead  of  Mr.  Blake,  tho  as- 
sas-sin.' 

Walpole  found  at  White's  a  very 
remarkable  entry  in  their  wager- 
i)Ook,  which  is  still  ])reserved.  '  Lord 
Mountford  Uts  Sir  John  B.land 
twenty  guinea.s  that  Na.sh  outlives 
Cibl)er.'  '  How  od<l,'  says  Walpole, 
'  that  these  two  old  en  atures,  selected 
for  their  antiquities,  should  live  to 
Bcc  Iwth  their  wagerers  put  an  end 
to  tlieir  own  Uvea!  Cibber  is  within 
a  few  days  of  eighty-four,  still 
hearty,  and  clear,  and  well.  I  told 
bim  1  wa-s  glad  to  see  him  look  so 
well.  "  Faith,"  said  lie,  "  it  is  very 
well  that  I  look  at  all."  '  As  it 
tamed  out,  tlio  bet  would  have  been 


in  Mountford's  favour.  Ciblx^rdicd 
in  1757,  while  Nash  lived  till  tho 
year  1761. 

A  man  dropped  down  at  tho  door 
of  White's:  he  was  carried  into  the 
house.  Was  he  dead  or  not  ?  Tho 
odds  were  immediately  given  and 
taken  for  and  iigainst.  It  was  pro- 
posed to  bleed  him.  Those  who  had 
taken  the  odds  the  man  was  dead 
jirotested  that  the  use  of  a  lancet 
\\onld  afTect  the  fairness  of  the  bet. 

Walpole  gives  .some  of  the.se  nar- 
ratives as  good  stories  'made  on 
White's.'  A  parson  coming  into  the 
Club  on  the  morning  of  the  earth- 
quake of  1 750,  and  hearing  beta  laid 
whether  the  .shock  was  cau.sed  by  an 
earthquake  or  by  blowing-up  of 
powder  mills,  went  away  in  horror, 
protesting  they  were  such  an  im- 
pious set  that  he  believed  that  if  the 
last  truin])  were  to  sound  they  would 
bet  puppet-show  against  judgment. 

But  the  Club  is  now,  as,  ha])pily, 
most  modern  institutions  are,  com- 
paratively in  the  odour  of  sanctity. 

'Boodle's  Club,  originally  the 
"Savoir  vivre,"  which,'  says  Mr. 
Timbs,  '  with  Brookes's  and  White's, 
forms  a  trio  of  nearly  coeval  date, 
and  each  of  which  takes  the  present 
name  of  its  founder,  is  No.. 28,  St. 
JaiiK's's  Street.  In  its  early  records 
it  was  noted  for  its  costly  gaieties, 
and  the  "  HtToic  Epistle  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Chambers,  1773,"  commemo- 
mte-  ts  epicurism: 

"  Fo    "  li:it  is  Xatiirc  ?  King  lier  cb.mgcs  round, 
Hit  three  flat  notes  are  watir,  plantB,  and 

ground  ; 
Prolong  the  peal,  yet,  tplte  of  all  your  clatter, 
Tbc  ti  dious  chime  Is  stiU  ground,  pUinls,  and 

water; 
IjO,  whi-n  fome  John  UU  dull  Invention  racks, 
To  rival  Bui)dl'''s  dinners  or  Almack'.t, 
Thric  iMicuuth  legs  of  mutton  .".hoik  our  eyes, 
'1  Lree  roasted  geese,  three  bullcrcd^ipple  pies." 

'  Boodle's  is  chiefly  frequented  by 
country  gentlemen,  who.se  status 
has  l)cen  thus  satirically  insinuated 
by  a  conteihporary.  "Every  Sir 
John  iHjlongK  to  Boodle's,  as  you 
may  see,  for  when  a  waiter  comes 
into  the  room  and  says  to  .some  aged 
student  of  the  'i\b)rniiig  Herald,' 
'Sir  John,  your  servant  is  como,' 
every  hea<l  is  mechanically  thrown 
up  in  answer  to  the  addre.s.s."  ' 

Captain  Gronow  relates  that  some 


Anecdote  and  Oosaip  about  Clubs. 


469 


gentlemen  of  both  White's  and 
Brookes's  had  on  one  occasion  the 
honour  to  dine  with  the  Prince  Ke- 
gent.  Compassionating  the  mem- 
bers of  these  clubs  for  the  monotony 
of  their  fare  at  dinner,  liis  Eoyal 
Highness  summoned  his  cook,  Wa- 
tier,  on  the  spot,  to  ask  him  if  he 
would  take  a  house  and  organise  a 
dinner  Club.  Watier  assented,  and 
hence  the  Club  which  bore  his 
name.  Macao  was  played  at  Watier's 
to  a  ruinous  extent,  and  '  the  Club,' 
according  to  Mr.  Raikes,  'did  not 
endure  for  twelve  years  altogether: 
the  pace  was  too  quick  to  last ;  it 
died  a  natural  death  in  1819  from 
the  paralysed  state  of  its  members ; 
the  house  was  then  taken  by  a  set 
of  blacklegs,  who  instituted  a  com- 
mon bank  for  gambling.  To  form 
an  idea  of  the  ruin  produced  by  this 
short-lived  establishment  among 
men  whom  I  have  so  intimately 
known,  a  cursory  glance  to  the  past 
suggests  a  melancholy  list,  which 
only  forms  a  part  of  its  deplorable 
results.  None  of  the  dead  reached 
the  average  age  of  man. 

'  One  evening  at  the  Macao  table, 
when  the  play  was  very  deep,  Brum- 
mell,  having  lost  a  considerable 
stake,  aflfected,  in  his  farcical  way, 
a  very  tragic  air,  and  cried  out, 
"  Waiter,  bring  me  a  flat  candlestick 
and  a  pistol !"  Upon  which  Bhgh 
(a  notorious  madman,  and  one  of  the 
memljers  of  Watier's),  who  was  sit- 
ting opposite  to  liim,  calmly  pro- 
duced two  loaded  pistols  from  his 
coat-pocket,  which  he  placed  on  the 
table,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Brummell,  if 
you  are  really  desirous  to  put  a 
period  to  your  existence,  I  am  ex- 
tremely happy  to  offer  you  the 
means,  vsdthout  troubling  the  waiter." 
The  effect  upon  those  present  may 
easily  be  imagined,  at  finding  them- 
selves in  the  company  of  a  known 
madman  who  had  loaded  weapons 
about  him.' 

Crockford's  Club,  also  noted  for 
its  devotion  to  play,  was  instituted 
m  1827,  in  the  house  No.  20,  on  the 
west  side  of  St.  James's  Street. 
Crockford  had  begun  life  with  a 
fish-basket,  and  ended  with  the 
'  most  colossal  fortune  that  was  ever 
made  by  play.  He  began,'  accord- 
ing to  the  '  Edinburgh  Review,'  '  by 


taking  Watier's  old  club-house,  in 
partnership  with  a  man  named 
Taylor.  They  set  up  a  hazard- 
bank,  and  won  a  great  deal  of  money, 
but  quarrelled  and  separated  at  the 
end  of  the  first  year.  Taylor  con- 
tinued where  he  was,  had  a  bad 
year,  and  failed.  Crockford  re- 
moved to  St.  James's  Street,  had  a 
good  year,  and  immediately  set 
about  building  the  magnificent  club- 
house which  bears  his  name.  It 
rose  like  a  creation  of  Aladdin's 
lamp,  and  the  genii  themselves  could 
hardly  have  surpassed  the  beauty  of 
the  internal  decoration,  or  furnished 
a  more  accomplished  maitre  ifhotel 
than  Ude.  To  make  the  company 
as  select  as  possible,  the  establish- 
ment was  regularly  organised  as  a 
Club,  and  the  election  of  members 
vested  in  a  committee.  "Crock- 
ford's"  became  the  rage,  and  the 
votarieij  of  fashion,  whether  they 
liked  play  or  not,  hastened  to  enrol 
themselres.  The  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton was  an  original  member,  though 
(unlike  Bliicher,  who  repeatedly  lost 
everything  he  had  at  play)  the  Great 
Captain  was  never  known  to  play 
deep  at  any  game  but  war  or  poli- 
tics. Card-tables  were  regularly 
placed,  and  whist  was  played  occa- 
sionally ;  but  the  aim,  end,  and  final 
cause  of  the  whole,  was  the  hazard- 
bank,  at  which  the  proprietor  took 
his  nightly  stand,  prepared  for  all 
comers.  Le  Wtllington  des  Joueurs 
lost  2  3,oooZ.  at  a  sitting,  beginning 
at  twelve  at  night  and  ending  at 
seven  the  following  evening.  He 
and  three  other  noblemen  could  not 
have  lost  less,  sooner  or  later,  than 
100,000?.  apiece.  Others  lost  in 
proportion  (or  out  of  proportion)  to 
their  means ;  but  we  leave  it  to  less- 
occupied  moralists  and  better  cal- 
culators to  say  how  many  ruined 
families  went  to  make  Mr.  Crockford 
a  millionaire,  for  a  millionaire  he 
was  in  the  English  sense  of  the 
term,  after  making  the  largest  pos- 
sible allowance  for  bad  debts.  A 
vast  sum,  perhaps  half  a  million, 
was  sometimes  due  to  him ;  but  as 
he  won,  all  his  debtors  were  able  to 
raise,  and  easy  credit  was  the  most 
fatal  of  his  lures.  He  retired  in 
1840,  much  as  an  Indian  chief  re- 
tires from  a  hunting  country  when 


470 


Artists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures. 


tlicro  is  not  game  enough  left  for 
his  trilK).' 

Tlioodoro  Ilook,  whnra,;xs  a  Club- 
man, wo  may  liave  occasion  again 
to  notice,  was  accustomed  to  fre- 
quent Crockforfl's,  where  ])lay  did 
not  l)egin  till  late.  IIo  would  often, 
after  going  the  round  of  tlie  Clubs, 
wind  uj)  with  'half  an  hour'  at 
Crockford's.  In  order  to  avoid  the 
night  air,  against  which  he  had  l>een 
cautione<l  by  his  medical  attendant, 
he  was  accustomed  not  to  leave  the 
gaming-house  for   Fulham,  where 


he  resided,  till  about  four  or  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  After 
Crockford's  death,  the  club-house 
was  sold  by  his  executors  for  2900^, 
held  on  lease,  of  which  thirty-two 
yeai's  were  unexjiired,  subject  to  a 
yearly  rent  of  1400/.  It  is  said  that 
the  ikecjrations  alone  cost  94,000?. 
The  interior  was  re  decorated  in 
1849,  and  ojx-ned  for  the  Military, 
Naval,  and  County  Service  Club, 
but  was  clo.sed  again  in  1851.  It 
has  l>een  for  several  years  a  dining- 
house— the  '  WeUington.' 


ARTISTS'  NOTES  FROM  CHOICE  PICTURES. 


^3rriiita. 


IN  the  Catalogue  of  the  Sheep- 
shanks Collection  this  picture 
is  entitled  '  Florizel  and  Perdita.' 
But  Leslie  him.self  called  it  simply 
'Perdita' — nothing  more:  and  the 
painter  may  be  supposed  to  have 
known  the  purpose  of  his  picture 
better  than  the  catalogue-makur.  I, 
for  one,  should  certainly  leave  the 
matter  to  him  in  every  case.  In  the 
present  instance  the  catalogue- 
maker's  alteration  is  assuredly  not 
an  improvement,  but  very  much  the 
opjxj.'-ite.  Perdita  is  not  merely  tlie 
principal  figure  of  the  composition 
but  the  whole  interest  of  it  is  cen- 
tred on  her.  The  cynosure  of 
neighbouring  eyes,  she  is  yet  under 
eclipse.  The  painter  has  set  him- 
self to  shadow  forth  the  two  phases 
of  her  existence— the  visil)lo  sem- 
blance, the  veiled  reality,'  Seeming 
but  a  shepherd's,  she  is  truly  a 
king's  daughter. 

•  This  is  tbf  prcttlf«t  low-born  laes  that  over 
Ran  on  the  grecn-sward ;   nothing  she  does  or 

But  nnncks  of  somrthlng  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place.' 

Florizel  is  in  the  picture  :  but  so  is 
Dorcas,  .so  aro  Poli.xenes  and  Ca- 
millo.  They  are  there  as  thoflowei-s 
aro  there :  the  story  would  Ix;  in- 
complete without  them.  It  is  Per- 
dita who  makes  the  picture,  and  the 
painter  knew  what  he  wnn  doing 
when  he  entitled  it '  Perdita.' 

But  the  rataloguc-niakrr  has  done 
Leslie  a  further  involuntary  injus- 


tice, and  is  likely  to  mislead  the 
visitor,  by  quoting,  as  the  motive  of 
the  painting,  the  lines — 

'  0 !  I'roserplna, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted,  thou  lett'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon    .... 

....    these  I  lack. 
To  make  you  grjrLmds  of;  and,  my  Bweet  friend, 
To  strew  bim  o'er  and  o'er.' 

'  W'inttr'i  Tale,'  Act  IV.,  Scene  3. 

Looking  at  the  arrangement  of 
the  picture  and  the  action  of  the 
several  jK-rsonages,  and  esjx'cially 
of  Perdita,  the  spectator  who  had 
only  these  lines  in  the  catalogue  to 
guide  him,  must  have  a  wondrously 
keen  perception  if  he  could  discern 
the  approjjriateness  of  the  painters 
treatment  of  his  subject,  or  appre- 
ciate the  subtler  touches  of  his 
genius.  The  jiassage  which  Leslie 
had  in  his  mind,  an<l  that  which  he 
quoted  for  the  Academy  Catalogue, 
occurs  earlier  in  the  scene,  and  refers 
to  an  antecedent  circumstance,  and 
quite  another  turn  of  thought :  it  is 
that  where,  welcominfr  the  guests, 
she  jircseiits  them  with  flowers — 
she  is  holding  the  marigold  between 
her  fingers— her  mind  the  while 
running  into  dreamy  musings  :— 

'  Here's  flowers  for  yon ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  m.irjornm ; 
Tlie  ni.iri;;i>ld  that  g'»es  to  bed  with  tlie.iun. 
And  wiUi  him  rises  wcoping  :   these  are  floworh 
Of  nilildic  bumroer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age :  you  are  very  welcome.' 

Pictures  of  the  order  of  that  now 
l)eforc  us  may  \>q  arranged  under 


From  the  Paii'ting  by  C.  K.  Leslie.] 


PERDITA. 

[See  "  Artists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures." 


Artists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures. 


471 


two  broad  divisions :  those  in  which 
the  painter  invents  his  story  ;  and 
those  in  which  he  derives  it  from 
the  pages  of  the  poet  or  novehst. 
Hogarth  or  Wilkie  may  stand  as  the 
type  of  the  painters  who  invent, 
Leslie  of  those  who  borrow  their 
topics.  It  is  not  often  that  an  artist 
adopts  iudifferently  either  method. 
Mulready  has,  however,  done  so, 
and  done  so  successfully.  Scarcely 
an  instance,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
be  cited  where  Leslie  has  not  chosen 
his  text  from  some  famous  writer. 
Even  pictures  like  his  '  IMay  Day  in 
the  rt'ign  of  Elizabeth,'  or  the 
*  Fairlop  Fair,'  would  hardly  on  (x- 
amiuation  be  pronounced  excep- 
tions. That  which  looks  most 
strictly  an  original  subject,  '  Who 
can  this  be  from '?'  (No.  112  in  the 
Sheepshanks  Collection)  has  so 
much  the  air  of  a  pas.- age  from  an 
essayist  that  on  seeing  it  you  invo- 
luntarily try  to  recollect  the  sug- 
gestion in  the  'Tatler'.or  'Spec- 
tator.' 

This  practice  of  borrowing  the  in- 
cident of  a  picture  has  sometimes 
been  regarded  as  the  result  of  de- 
ficiency of  imagination  or  want  of 
originality,  and  as  stamping  the 
•work  therefore  with  a  mark  of  infe- 
riority. There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
a  certain  native  impulse  or  inventive 
talent  is  required  in  order  to  devise 
an  original  theme  for  a  picture,  and 
that  the  same  talent  is  not  called 
into  exercise  when  a  subject  is  taken 
ready  made  from  a  book.  If  the 
subject  so  taken  is  described  in  de- 
tail and  followed  implicitly  there 
may  indeed  be  little  more  invention 
required  in  representing  it  than  in  a 
piece  of"  mechanical  copying.  But 
tliis  is  not  the  procedure  of  the  true 
artist.  He  goes  to  his  author  for 
suggestion  rather  than  for  informa- 
tion, and  embodies  in  form  and 
colour  just  those  fugitive  hints 
which  to  the  ordinary  reader  convey 
the  least  definite  impression. 

And  if  this  latter  kind  of  painting 
should  on  analysis  be  found  to  fall 
short  in  some  ujcahure  in  its  claims 
on  the  imaginative  faculty  as  com- 
pared with  the  former,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  it  makes  greater  de- 
mands on  the  artist's  acquired  know- 
ledge and  tact.    The  spectator,  if 


the  subject  be  taken  from  a  familiar 
passage  in  some  favourite  author, 
has  a  notion  of  his  own  respecting 
it,  which  he  by  no  means  wishes  to 
undo,  and  is  not  very  ready  to 
exchange  for  another's.  If  the 
painter's  conception  accords  with 
that  he  has  formed,  well :  the 
painter  is  a  man  of  taste  and  shall 
have  his  verdict.  If  not,  the  painter 
— however  great  he  may  be  in  other 
works — has  blundered  now.  This  is 
not  the  Jew  that  Shakspeare  drew. 
Tennj  son  could  never  have  dreamed 
of  such  a  Mariana.  Mulready's  fine 
lady  is  not  the  homely  Deborah  of 
Goldsmith's  'Vicar;'  and  so  on 
through  the  whole  cycle  of  memories. 

But  whatever  be  the  exact  degree 
of  merit  assignable  to  the  respective 
classes  of  productions,  we  must  be 
cautious  in  denjing  the  possession 
of  original  power  to  either.  Else  we 
might  find  ourselves  landed  on  very 
untenable  ground.  Even  the  very 
play  from  which  Leslie  has  drawn 
the  inspiration  for  the  picture  before 
us  would  have  to  be  deposed  from 
its  acknowledged  rank ;  for  Shak- 
speare, in  '  The  Winter's  Tale,'  has 
followed  pretty  closely  the  plot  of 
Eobert  Greene's  forgotten  novel 
'  Pandosto.'  And  did  not  Tennyson 
find  both  title  and  suggestion  of  his 
'  Moated  Grainge,'  and  catch  its 
mournful  tone,  from  the  famous 
passage  in  '  Measure  for  Measure,' 
where  our  great  dramatist  tells  that 
'  at  the  moated  grange  resides  the 
dejected  Mariana?' 

In  truth  nearly  all  depends  on 
how  the  purpose  is  effected;  in 
other  words,  on  the  genius  of  the 
artist.  The  illustration  of  the  idea 
of  a  great  poet  by  a  man  of  mediocre 
abihty  is  a  thing  not  to  be  endured.  A 
living  embodiment  of  the  same  idea 
by  a  man  of  congenial  mind  adds  a 
new  value  to  it.  And  it  is  the  in- 
trinsic quality  of  Leslie's  genius 
that  he  always  seizes  the  inner 
spirit,  and  renders  palpable  the 
special  flavour  and  subtlest  essence 
of  his  author's  conception.  This, 
and  his  clear,  keen  appreciation  of 
character,  are  the  distinctive  mental 
qualities  of  his  works.  His  range 
of  perception  was  limited.  He  could 
not  grasp  the  sublime ;  he  had  no 
sympathy  with  the  farcical.  But  no 


472 


Artists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures. 


man  had  a  truer  fciiso  of  (Hiict 
humour,  none  a  more  htarty  lovu 
of  whiitt'vcr  was  j^entle  antl  pi'iie- 
rous  and  iH-'autilul.  And  vitliin 
his  limits  Iiis  symiiiitliies  wore  suf- 
ficieutly  compreheiisivo.  His  tastes 
were  moro  literary  than  is  common 
among  artists.  Ilu  read  and  illus- 
trate(i  with  equal  geniality  the 
works  of  Sliakf-peare  and  ^lolierc, 
of  Fielding  and  Cervantes,  Smollett 
and  GoUlsmith,  of  Addison  and 
Sterne.  And  if  you  had  not  his 
delightful  '  Autohiograpliy  '  to  as- 
sure you  of  the  fact,  you  could  havo 
little  doubt,  after  even  a  cursoiy 
examination  of  his  ))ictures,  that  ho 
liad  read  and  enjoyed  the  authors 
ho  illustrated,  and  did  not  merely 
turn  over  their  pages  to  find  suh- 
jects  for  his  pencil.  This  it  was 
that  made  him,  what  all  who  havo 
really  studied  his  pictures,  along 
with  those  of  his  fellow- workers  in 
tho  same  line,  will  readily  allow 
him  to  Ih),  the  greatest  illustrative 
painter  of  tho  English  School. 

For  tho  realization  of  a  certain, 
range  of  Shaksperian  imaginings  his 
pencil  was  eminently  fitted.  With 
humour  ho  had  polish.  His  Kenso 
of  l)cauty  was  innate  and  his  ta.sfe 
perfect.  In  all  he  touched  arc  pas- 
tages  of  genuine  feeling  and  finished 
grace,  lie  knew  pei-fectly  how  to 
blend  poetry  with  reality. 

Among  tho  most  marvellous  of 
even  Shakspeare's  wondcrlul  crea- 
tions are  his  female  characters. 
Numerous  a.s  they  are  each  has  a 
distinct  iniiiviluality ;  each  is  truo 
to  nature,  or  what  we  kc\  to  l»c 
possible  in  nature;  and  each  is  tho 
type  of  a  cla^s.  No  writer  lias  con- 
reived  .'^o  wide  a  variety,  each  in 
her  way  an  almost  faultless  ex- 
ample of  the  union  of  exc<llenco 
in  mind  and  person.  And  of  all  of 
them  surely  I'erdita  is  one  of  the 
loveliest.  Not  mucli  is  Keen  of  her, 
hut  nothing  she  d(K;s  an(l  not  a 
syllahlo  that  she  utters  is  out  of 
keeping  with  her  iKtsit ion,  or  con- 
tradicts the  Ritnj)licity  and  purify  of 
her  nature.  Kven  a  strunptr  pro- 
nounccK  her  at  first  sight '  the  rarest 
of  all  women ;' 

■  TIjc  moit  pwrlOM  pl<H»  of  rartii,  I  tbiuk, 
Tbat  e'er  the  >au  tUone  brlgbl  on.' 


Whilst  the  enraptured  Florizel  de- 
clares 

'  Wliiito'er  yim  ilo 
Still  belters  wbat  Is  tlwiio.     When  you  gpcak, 

^^vect, 
I'd  liiive  yoii  (111  it  ever    .... 
....     When  ynii  do  daiico,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  n-n,  that  you  miKbt  over  do 
Nulhing  hui  thnt.' 

It  was  no  light  task  Leslie  under- 
took in  giving  visible  form  to  so 
exquisite  a  creature ;  and  ho  was 
evidently  con.scious  of  the  ditliculty, 
and  put  forth  all  his  powers.  He 
has  jiaiiited  nu.iiy  beautiful  women, 
but  this  is  the  loveliest  of  all  Even 
our  artist,  who  is  so  skilful  in  ren- 
dering female  beauty,  has  not  ex- 
pressed fully  her  exquisite  grace  and 
delicacy.  Yet  Leslie,  whil.st  he  has 
endowed  her  with  tho  rarest  love- 
liness, has  preserved  lier  jjroper 
personality.  She  is  the  Perdita  of 
Shaksj)earo,  as  rich  in  worth  as 
beauty.  Sweet  as  is  the  cxi)r(  ssion 
of  her  countenance,  there  is  yet  an 
air  of  tender  sadness  in  it  that  tells 
at  once  of  the  dejith  of  her  affection, 
and  the  foreboding  that  some  evil 
is  impending  which  must  shortly 
blight  it.  Ijcslie  is  not  often  pa- 
thetic, but  there  is  true  pathos  here. 
Curiously  enough,  this  sad  expres- 
sion in  Perdita's  face  is  what  .seems 
first  to  arrest  tho  attention  of  most 
casual  observers.  Stand  by  the  pic- 
ture awhile  on  a  ])nlilic  day,  and 
you  will  hear,  as  grou|)  after  group 
clusters  round  it.  the  inquiry'  What 
is  the  story?'  conslantly  relocated, 
antl  as  constantly  the  ready  answer, 
'  Disappointed  Love.'  But  it  needs 
only  a  moiiu  nt's  steady  gaze  to  be 
satisliud  that  there  is  no  trace  of 
disappointment  in  that  gentle  face. 
There  is  deep  feeling,  sadness  verg- 
ing on  tears,  Imt  it  is  the  sadness  due 
to  a  sense  of  uncertainty  and  mys- 
tery ;  to  tho  feeling  that  the  i)resent 
is  but  a  blissful  dream  from  which 
there  must  B'mhi  l)eadr(Miry  awaken- 
ing,    'lis  but  just  now  she  has  said 

■  0  but,  Rlr, 
Your  rpfiolutlon  omnot  hold,  when  'Un 
0|i|Kis'd,  aa  it  ^lu^t  !«•,  l>y  the  power  o'  the  king; 
One  of  these  two  must  Ijc  necetwlljeg, 
Wlilc h  then  will  i<i>.ak  ;  th.il  you  must  change 

thl«  purpono, 
Or  1  my  life  ' 

Let  US  look  now  U)t  a  moment  at 


Artists'  Notes  from  Choice  Pictures. 


473 


the  picture  as  a  picture.  It  is  but 
of  ginall  dimensions— Leslie  seldom 
employed  a  large  cauvas— low  iu 
colour,  quiet  in  tone ;  altogether 
temperate  and  singularly  unobtru- 
sive. Originally  there  was  percep- 
tible in  it  something  of  that  'chalki- 
ness '  which  was  charged  with  jus- 
tice against  Leslie's  later  pictures, 
and,  from  which  those  of  his  middle, 
and  on  the  whole,  best,  period  were 
not  entirely  free.  But  thirty  years 
have  passed  since  it  was  painted, 
and  Time  has  touched  it  with  a 
gentle  finger.  In  no  respect  has  it 
worsened  by  age,  and  in  most  it  has 
improved.  The  colour  is  mellower, 
the  contrast  of  light  and  shadow 
somewhat  more  subdued,  whilst  the 
flesh  tints  retain  all  their  freshness 
and  purity,  and  have  acquired  by 
comparison  more  warmth  and  bril- 
liancy. Especially  is  it  so  with  the 
face  of  Perdita.  Nothing  can  well 
surpass  the  natural  red  and  white 
of  her  complexion,  the  pearly  hue  of 
her  neck,  or  the  soft  round  truthful- 
ness of  the  modelling.  This  clear  ^ 
unsunned  complexion,  however, 
whilst  it  adds  to  the  delicacy  and 
refinement  of  her  appearance,  may 
seem  a  little  at  variance  with  her 
present  condition  as  the  shepherd's 
daughter,  one  who  has  been  used  to 
'  milk  her  ewes  and  weep.'  Yet 
Leslie  had  the  highest  authority  for 
painting  her  skin  so  fair.  Florizel 
says  to  her — 

'  i  take  thy  hand ;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 
That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er.' 

In  point  of  execution  the  bead  and 
arms  of  Perdita  are  worthy  the 
closest  study  of  the  young  painter, 
and  mightcause  the  oldest  to  despair. 
The  colours  are  laid  in  broadly  and 
with  a  touch  light  and  facile  as 
gossamer ;  and  though  a  practised 
eye  can  see  that  the  details  have 
been  executed  with  a  small  pencil, 
hardly  a  trace  of  the.,pencil  is  any 
more  visible  than  there  is  in  the 
flesh-painting  of  Titian ;  and  the  last 
thing  that  any  one  would  think  of 
in  looking  at  it  woiild  be  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  executed.  There  is 
in  truth  consummate  art,  but  it  is 
the  art  which  conceals  its  opera- 
tions. 


Perdita  is  the  centre  of  the  pic- 
ture by  position  as  well  as  in  virtue 
of  being  queen  of  the  feast.  The 
snn  streams  through  the  open  lat- 
tice full  upon  her.  It  is  the  festival 
of  the  sheep-shearing,  and  she  as  its 
queen  is  dressed  up  in  *  borrow'd 
flaunts,'  blushing  to  see  herself  so 
disguised,  till  Florizel  assures  her 
that 

'  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life:  no  shepherdess ;  but  Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front.' 

Of  these  unusual  weeds,  however, 
Leslie  has  been  chary  in  the  display. 
She  has  an  amber- coloured  silk 
scarf  fastened  across  her  shoulders, 
and  her  hair  is  garlanded  with  a 
wreath  of  the  little  wild  convolvu- 
his,  but  besides  these  there  is  none 
of  that  finery  with  which  she 

'  Poor  lowly  maid 
Most  goddess-llke's  prankt  up.' 

Her  dress  is  of  the  plainest  cut,  and 
of  a  blue  so  dark  as  hardly  to  be 
distinguished  from  black.  Leslie 
disliked  fantastic  clothing ;  but 
some  seems  so  evidently  reqiiired 
hero  that  its  absence  can  only  be 
explained  by  supposing  that  as  the 
least  of  two  evils  he  preferred  de- 
parting from  the  strict  letter  of  the 
text  to  incurring  the  risk  of  marring 
the  tender  grace  and  simplicity  of 
Perdita's  countenance.  But  his  re- 
serve in  regard  to  Perdita's  costume 
rendered  necessary  alike  reserve  with 
reference  to  the  other  characters. 
The  Florizel  of  the  '  Winter's  Tale' 
we  know  whilst  'obscured  with  a 
swain's  wearing,'  was,  like  his  mis- 
tress, so  transformed  that,  as  she 
tells  him— 

'  But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  foil}',  and  Uie  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir'd;  sworn,  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass.' 

Yet  he,  in  truth,  in  the  picture 
serves  as  a  glass  by  the  very  plain- 
ness of  his  attiring.  Florizel,  in- 
deed, is  not  one  of  Leslie's  most 
successful  personages.  Like  most 
gentlemen  lovers  he  is  rather  in- 
sipid, or  appears  so  to  a  looker-on. 
But  he  is  a  necessity  in  the  picture, 
and  he  serves  one  good  purpose 
there :  he  is  an  excellent  foil  to 
Perdita.    He  is  plainly  habited  in  a 


474 


Artists'  Notes  from  CJioice  Piduna. 


tunic  of  a  deep  red-l>rown,  wliich 
serves  well  to  iucrcnso  the  brilliancy 
of  his  mistress's  complexion. 

Dorcas,  who  stands  by  Perdita's 
right  hand  (the  Catalopnc  says  it  is 
Mopsa,  but  this  is  a  mistake,  as  the 
writer  would  liave  seen  if  he  liad 
read  the  earlier  jtart  of  Perdita's 
address),  is  also  of  great  value  in 
the  picture  as  a  contrast  to  her 
mistress.  She  is  not  vulgar,  for 
Leslie  never  made  the  meanest 
female  vulgar ;  but  there  is  a  ruddy 
sunburnt  homeliness  in  her  face  and 
expression  strikingly  opposed  to  the 
grace  and  refinement  of  Perdita's. 
Leslie  seems  to  have  found  it  a  dif- 
ficult face  to  paint,  for  there  are 
traces  of  labour  and  even  of  repeti- 
tion in  it;  and  our  artist  appears  to 
have  experienced  a  like  dilliculty  in 
copying  it ;  for  as  something  of  the 
loveliness  of  Perdita  has  escaped  in 
the  engraving,  so  some  new  refine- 
ment and  beauty  have  been  given 
to  Dorcas. 

The  disguised  king,  Polixenes,  and 
his  friend  Camillo,  are  the  least 
satisfactory  figures  in  the  picture. 
They  are  too  much  like  the  dis- 
guised princes  of  the  stage  Leslie 
was  evidently  at  a  loss  liow  to  deal 


with  them.  Ilapjiily  they  are  not 
obtrusive,  but,  oddly  enough,  the 
whole  of  the  '  borrow'd  flaunts  '  are 
tlic'ir  disguisings.  Camillo's  ver- 
milion hat  and  cock's  feather  are 
plainly  masquerade  proi)erties. 

The  scene  is  the  interior  of  the 
shci)lier(r8  hut.  A  plain  plastered 
wall  is  the  simple  background.  A 
pair  of  shepherd's  shears,  the  lea- 
thern wallet,  a  shelf  with  a  few 
oidinary  household  articles,  an  un- 
painted  deal  table,  are  the  fitting 
accessories.  A  feebler  painter  woiild 
have  elaborated  the  furniture,  and 
given  us  minute  iuiitations  of  all 
sorts  of  nick-nackeries  that  could 
possibly  be  brought  together  in  a 
shepherd's  shieling.  Leslie  was  hap- 
pily free  from  all  such  coxcombry. 
He  felt  the  poetry  of  the  scene  ho 
was  painting,  and  makes  us  feel  it. 
His  attention  was  fixed  on  sentiment 
and  character,  and  we,  in  looking  at 
the  picture,  no  more  think  of  the 
room  and  its  garnishings  than  wc 
should  if  we  had  witnessed  such  a 
scene  in  actual  life.  Enough  is  it,  as 
Camillo  declares,  to  gaze  on  that 
fair  face, 

'And  only  live  by  gazing.' 


H 


476 

A  STEANGE  COUKTSHIP. 

E  comes,  you  Stay,  to-morrow  ?' 


'  Yes ;  he  comes 
With  the  next  sun  that  smiles.— Shall  you  be  glad  ?' 

'  0,  more  than  glad ! — My  one,  own  brother !    He 
I  never  saw ;  so  soon  to  take  his  way 
To  far  Ionia. — And  his  tutor,  too, 
I  think  you  said,  comes  with  him  ?    Eead,  read  all ; 
Dear  governess,  the  letter  is  to  you.' 

'  I  pass,  dear  Laura,  a  few  flattering  words 
Your  father  writes — they  praise  me  over-much; 
Sir  John  is  over  kind,  most  kind  to  me, 
Me,  your  poor  governess.     I  pass  those  words ; 

.  The  rest  runs  thus :— "  Pray  let  my  children  meet, 
And  be  as  much  togetlier  as  they  will ; 
It  is  not  well  that  children  of  one  house 
Should  be  bred  up  at  distance.    Sool  my  son 
Starts  for  the  old  Greek  Isles,  where  he  shall  take 
His  little  sister's  picture  in  his  mind ; 
To  live,  a  pleasant  thought,  in  after  years 
When  only  they  are  left  of  all  their  house. 
As  for  his  tutor,  a  grave  moody  man. 
As  savage  as  a  yet  unmuzzled  bear. 
Show  him,  I  pray,  what  courtesy  you  can. 
The  while  my  children  romp  beside  the  sea. 
He  has  much  learning :  you  well  love  old  lore ; 
Perhaps  he  may  prove  less  niggard  of  his  speech 
Than  my  son  still  reports  him"  ' 

'  How  I  wish 
The  horrid  man  would  stay  at  Brasenose !' 

'  Nay,  let  us  make  the  best  we  can  of  him. 
A  diamond  sometimes  shows  but  in  the  rough 
A  sorry  gem  at  first.' 

'  How  dull  for  you ! 
I  and  my  brother  playing  on  the  beach, 
My  poor  old  aunt  for  ever  wheeled  about. 
And  you  no  one  to  talk  to  but  this  bear.' 

'  A  little  discipline  may  do  me  good. 
You  know  you  spoil  me  all,  till  I  forget — 
Almost,  not  quite, — that  I  am  but  a  stray, 
A  weed  on  this  great  ocean  of  the  world 
Set  floating  early,  tangled  in  the  drift 
That  bears  me  on,  close  clinging  here  and  there. 
Where'er  I  find  a  gentle  holding,  dear  : — 
A  little  stafi^,  like  Laui'a,  is  enough 
For  me  to  cling  to.' 

Saying  which,  her  anna 
She  wound  about  the  light  form  of  the  girl. 
And  sealed  a  silent,  life-long  bond  of  love. 


47G  A  Strange  Cunrlshlp. 

Tlioro  stands  an  old  trrcy  r.i'^tlc  by  tho  sea 

roivlied  on  a  clialk-clilV  liill,  wlicro  tamarisk  trees 

Waw-  to  the  wind,  sliowing  the  hri^ht  waves  through 

TliL'ir  rosy  stems, — like  youthful  finp'rs  held 

Bcforo  the  sun,— to  screen  the  fairer  face 

Of  nature  hloominp;  aun'd  flower-bed  lawns 

That  lie  within  the  dcked  old  court  and  keep. 

It  is  a  i)lace  for  spring-time,  when  the  balls 

Of  aml)er-llowered  Japonica  drop  down 

The  ruined  wall,  like  orbs  from  sceptred  hands. 

It  is  a  spot  for  lovers,  and  yet  more 

For  those  denied  of  love.     The  ])lrtco  is  rich 

With  many  memories  of  our  Euf^lish  land  : 

The  lone  may  pause  u]ion  its  antique  gri)und 

And  muse  of  battles,  kings,  and  '  dusty  death.' 

Pay  after  day,  in  arbourage  so  rich, 

Week  after  week,  and  month  on  rolling  month. 

The  woman-teacher  and  all-learned  man 

Took  counse'  of  the  waters,  rocks,  and  skies. 

And  some  slight  sparring,  too,  of  wits  was  theirs — 

A  salt  that  savoured  much  the  too  stale  bread. 

So  duly  served,  of  every-day  discourse. 

One  eve,  when  they  were  resting  'mid  the  bowers. 
Looking  abroad  upon  the  motley  crowd. 
Some  bitter  words  of  woman-hating  spleen 
Broke  from  the  man.     To  which  she  calm  replied: 

*  We  are,  I  think,  sir,  what  you  make  of  us.' 

'  Must  we,  then,  answer  for  your  every  freak 
Of  fitshion?     L)o  wo  trick  you  out,  now  this 
Now  that  way;  witii  a  stiffeiu'd  robe  to-<lay, 
To-morrow  with  a  garment  limj)  as  nets 
Yon  careless  fi^hl•r-lK)y  drags  through  the  brine? 
A  simile  that  holds  in  more  than  that; 
For  all  your  garments  are  but  meshes  fine 
To  catch  unwary ' 

'  Fislies  ?    They're  cunning,  too ; 
But  over  busy  in  their  own  high  way. 
The  sun  that  breaks  upon  their  glittering  scales 
Perchance  may  dazzle  them.     For  our  ])oor  rol>es, 
^b)st  women  that  I  know  make  sweet  aj)peal 
rnt<j  the  lords  who  rule  them  in  their  homes. 
The  answer  is:  "  Still  wear  what  others  wear; 
Make  not  yourself  a  mock  for  gaping  eyes.'' 
This  "  do  as  others  dd,"  so  lightly  said, 
Tis  this  which  mars  us  all.     It  seems  to  me 
Women  are  lehs  like  flocks  of  sheep  than  men.' 

*  You're  complimentary.' 

'I'm  true,  I  hope: 
That  truth  is  sharp,  pray  lay  not  to  my  charge.' 

'  WouM  you  could  all  bo  true  in  higher  things  1' 

'  Why,  there  again,  you  cavil  without  causa 
Give  us  the  ctiance :  then  see  what  we  may  bo.' 


A  Strange  Courtship.  477 

'  Of  course ;  permit  you  to  go  lecturing  forth 
To  grinning  students,' 

'  Not  so ;  lecture  us 
The  rather.     Give  us  of  your  weaUli  of  mind: 
Teach  us  in  gentleness,  and  we  will  learn, 
And  bless  the  hand  that  led  us  gently  up 
The  weary  steep  we  cannot  climb  alone.' 

'  You're  gentle  now.     You  have  as  many  moods 
As  j^onder  deep.     Mark  how  it  surges  up, 
Then  breaks  in  foam-wreaths  on  the  enamoured  shore 
That  draws  it,  sparkling,  to  his  wide  embrace ! 
The  very  sands  seem  all  a-glow  with  life  ! 
The  changefalness  of  ocean— is't  not  sweet  ?' 

'  Sweet  as  the  constant  face  of  heaven,  that  looks 
Upon  the  sea,  as  mother  on  her  child, 
And,  seeing  her  own  image  in  its  face, 
Feels  keenly  it  is  hers.     See  !  bending,  breaks 
The  sky  in  smiles  the  sea  gives  back  again. 
Mark  where  the  clouds  glide  floating  far  away, 
Like  angry  passions  from  a  child's  first  kiss !' 

*  You're  fond  of  children  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  but  knew  it  not 
Till  I  knew  Laura.     Do  you  love  them  too  ?' 

'  Not  I Yes,  Laura ;  just  as  I  should  love 

A  httle  sister,  had  I  one.' 

'  You  are ' 

*  Alone  in  all  this  bitter,  biting  world.' 

'  Not  now— not  now !    Not  since  you  came  to  us. 
I  think  that  Laiira  loves  you;  for  I  note 
That  while  the  child  plays  busy  on  the  shore, 
And  gives  her  idle  brother  tasks  to  do. 
She  often  lifts  her  face  to  where  you  brood. 
So  sorrowfully  musing.     AVhen  you  chance 
To  smile  upon  her,  she  breaks  out  in  smiles, 
As  though  a  dearer  brother  were  in  you 
Than  nature  gave  her  in  the  youth  you  teach 
To  be  the  pride  and  honour  of  his  house.' 

'  That  is  no  sign  of  love.     You  do  as  much 
Yourself,  who  hate  me  and  my  beari^ih  ways. 
If  I  but  laugh,  you  catch  the  simple  trick 
Of  giving  back  my  mood.     A  limatic 
Is  treatcil  thus,  one  dare  not  diiier  from 
Lest  he  should  seize  us  in  his  sudden  arms 
And  leap  with  us  a  crag  into  the  sea ! 
If  I  am  black  in  melancholy,  then 
You  grow  as  miserably  like  myself 
As  my  twin-spirit.    "Tis  a  sign  of  hate.' 

*  Most  grieved  am  I  that  so  you  should  mistake 
An  honest  wish  to  see  you  more  at  ease. 

If  I  knew  how ' 

'  Then  smile  when  I  am  sad.' 

*  I  cannot.' 


478  A  Strange  Courtship. 

'  When  I  am  in  nicrry  mood, 
I  pray  you  look  a  little  sullen  on  mo.' 

'  I  cftnnot,  for  my  life!     Your  smiles  infect 
The  happy  world  aliout  you.     Dancing  lights 
Play  all  alMUit  the  flowers,  till  thoy  stir 
Thi/ir  ixtals  and  prow  winged  with  innocent  joy. 
The  airy  scope  of  nature  makes  the  most 
Of  that 'most  seldom  gladness,  as  the  skies 
Bend  to  a  bow  of  teauty  after  storm.' 

'  I  shall  l)c  bettor  hence.     I  will  go  back, — 
Not  to  my  home ;  I  have  none  :  back  to  college, 
And  take  a  fellow.ship  iu  place  of  wife.' 

'  A  wife,  though  but  a  slu-ew,  would  help  you  most. 
Hard  men  have  done  tlieir  best  to  harden  you.' 

'Am  I  so  hard?' 

'  Hard  to  yourself,  I  mean.' 

'  Not  hard  to  you  ?' 

'  I  think  not  of  myself: 
I,  too,  am  \iscd  to  cufTs  and  buffetings — 
Or  Wiis,  at  least,  until  I  .sheltered  here. 
All  love  me  here ' 

'  Including  lleginald  ?' 

'  I  hojie  to  make  him  friend  to  me,  as  well 
As  his  young  sister  and  the  good  Sir  John.' 

'  And  nothing  more  ?* 

'  I  understand  you  not.' 

'  I  may  seem  rude ;  but— might  it  not  be  well 
To  cultivate  a  softer  feeling  still  ? 
A  baronet  is  not  amiss,  though  poor.' 

'  I  should  1)0  angry.     Yet  I  can  but  smile 
To  think  in  all  this  time  how  little  way 
I  must  have  made  in  your  esteem.     Were  there 
But  one  man  in  the  world,  and  marriage  meant 
For  me,  love,  safety,  honour,  and— a  home, 
I  could  not  owe  them  to  my  master's  .son. 
Whose  heart  so  noble  to  believe  me  truo 
Bfjth  to  myself  and  him  ?     What  though  I  loved 
Him,  as  1  could  love  some  far  other  man 
I  ne'er  have  seen— perchance  may  never  sec — 
W^hat  warmnt  could  I  give  that  all  my  love 
Were  not  a  show— a  bribe — to  win  a  place 
Wa.s  never  meant  for  mo?     What!  steal  a  son? 
A  poor  return  for  s\u;h  a  warm  regard 
As  makes  mo  hero  a  house-child  in  his  homo.' 

'  You,  then,  could  like  him  well,  if  things  were  other?' 

'  He  soems  a  youth  of  promise  most  in  that 
Wliich  savours  of  your  teaching;  is  well  learned. 
But  Bomowhat  cold,  I  think,    lie  does  not  love 


A  Strange  Courtship.  479 

His  sister  Laura  as  she  should  be  loved. 
Impatient  is  ho  ever  when  the  child 
Entreats  him  to  some  pastime  at  her  hand — 
You  never  do  so— never !' 

'  True ;  I  like 
The  child :  one  must  love  something ' 

'  Good  or  bad. 
It  not  much  matters  which.    All  the  great  joy 
Of  love  is  iu  the  giving ' 

'  There  you  miss 
The  truth !    All  m^j  love  given  is  nothing ; — less : 
I  must  have  your  love— have  it  now— have  all, 
Givc'i  up  to  me  in  bond  to  have  and  hold ! 
Give — give  it  me!     Nay,  do  not  rise,  in  doubt 
If  I  am  sane  or  mad.    Your  love  111  have. 
Ay,  though  I  die  for  it!' 

*  A  meiTy  jest. 
I  fain  would  smile  at  it.' 

*It  is  '»o  jest; 
'Tis  fateful,  fearful  earnest.    I'll  have  love — 
Yonr  love — its  full  assurance,  given  as  free 
As  the  free  winds  that  kiss  that  rosing  cheek 
Which  sets  my  wild  heart  throbbing  with  a  hope. 
Tell  me  it  is  the  rose -hue  of  the  west 
Tbat  comes  to  say  my  life's  sun  is  not  dead 
Though  night  and  darkness  draw  upon  the  world ! 
Before  I  slip  my  secret  to  the  winds 
That  round  you  cannot  blow  and  hold  deceit, 
Answer  me — here  at  once — with  all  your  soul. 
My  Marian,  do  you  love  me  ?' 

'Hold,  a  little; 
My  eyes  are  dim.    You  re  sudden.    I  am  weak. 
Is  it  the  sun  between  the  tamarisk  boughs— 
Or  see  I  but  the  waving  of  the  stems. 
A  bh'd  seems  fluttering  m  my  breast.    My  heart 
Beats  as  it  never  beat— will  ne'er  beat  more 
If  now  you  should  forsake  me.' 

'  Call  me  yours, 
And  trust  your  sweet  head  on  my  guardian  breast.' 

'  IMy  friend— nay  more — my  love,  for  life — for  death, 
And  oh,  beyond— for  ever  and  for  ever!' 

•Your  Eeginald.' 

'  My  Eeginald  ?' 

'  Your  own ; 
The  son  of  good  Sir  John.    Pardon  the  plot — 
Pardon,  for  love's  sweet  sake !' 

'  It  was  not  well.' 

'  It  was  most  shameful — hateful.    I  could  curse 
Myself  for  putting  such  a  cheat  on  yoii. 
Yet,  this  believe :  whatever  be  my  sin 


480  A  Strange  Courtship. 

In  clianprinpr  places  tlnis  witli  yonder  dolt, 
'Twa-s  liss  liiy  sclieine  than  iu>  good  father's  plan 
To  bind  you  to  us,  t.pite  of  your  sweet  self.' 

'  I  Kf  it  all.     You  did  it  but  to  njako 
Rly  luiirt  an<I  conf^ciciKe  liplit.     iMy  pardon,  then; 
As  full  as  I  I'ui  sptak  it.     Nay,  my  cheek- 
Well, — take  it  from  my  lips,  then*  they  are  j'oui-s.' 

Eleanoiia  L.  IlEnvfv, 


Iiijirtii  l.v  .1    i,.,r.l.i|i    II,.,,,, .,,!,.; 

MY    ESCAPE    FROM    in  DKOi'ATIIY. 


fSee  tin-  Storv. 


LONDON    SOCIETY, 


JUNE,  1867. 

MY  ESCAPE  FROM  HYDEOPATHY; 
or,  amijat  CTa.tr  m^atex  Xiiij  fat  mtr. 


WHEN  our  troubles  are  sticli  as  little  right  to  seek,  an(]  still  less  to 
we  could  by  no  means  have  expect,  much  sympathy.  The  writer 
averted  or  avoided,  kind  frit-nds  of  the  few  followinp:  pages  accord- 
sometimes  feel  for  us;  but  when  we  ingly  looks  not  for  one  wordof  jDity, 
Buffer  for  our  own  folly   we  have  not  a  sympathizing  thought  from 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  LXVI.  2   I 


482 


My  Escape  from  Hydropathy  ;  or, 


those  who  rend  them,  fi>r  ho  freely 
admits  his  to  havo  boon  tho  hitler 
case,  ho  havitip  delihcratoly  siih- 
initted  to  tlio  pcourgo  that  chastised 
him  so  severely. 

By  no  means  out  of  health,  yet 
overdone  with  study  some  few  years 
back,  I  resolved  to  jint  my  Itooks 
away,  an  1  to  conihiiie  a  little  ehanpo 
of  seeno  with  a  short  but  tliorouph 
lioliday.  The  question  was,  Wlii- 
ther  KJiould  1  i)!jtako  myself?  It 
was  tho  depth  of  winter;  tho  very 
season  when  of  all  others  there  is 
no-  place  like  homo.  Tlio  seaside 
would  1)0  dreary.  For  amusement 
there  would  of  course  bo  nothing 
like  London;  but  then  I  wanted 
freshoninp,  and  I  had  my  doubts 
whether  the  atmosphere  of  town 
was  the  best  for  that  purpose.  I 
was  a  town  bird  my.self,  and  iiad  a 
notion  that  country  air  would  be 
the  thing  for  me;  but  just  fancy  a 
lodging  in  a  retired  village,  or  at  a 
farm-house  in  a  meadow,  at  such  a 
time  of  year ! 

In  tho  midst  of  my  difficulty  a 
friend  called. 
'  I  have  it,'  eaid  he.    *  Have  you 

ever  l)een  to ?' 

'  No,  I  have  not,'  was  my  reply  ; 
'  but  that  is  a  cold-water  establish- 
ment, is  it  not  ?' 

'  Oh,  never  yon  mind  that.  You 
are  not  obliged  to  Injcome  a  patient 
nnle-ss  you  like.  I  go  there  some- 
times when  I  want  a  change,  simply 
as  a  visitor,  and  am  taken  in  '« 
jo/isinn.  It  is  a  capital  place.  The 
situation  is  most  lualtliy.  You  fare 
plainly  but  well,  and  tho  house  is 
gf  iierally  full  in  winter.  Take  my 
advice  and  try  it,  for  it  offers  exactly 
what  you  want— country  air  with- 
out the  attendant  drawbacks  which 
you  so  much  dread.' 

I  needed  no  more  urging.  I 
thanke<l  my  friend  for  lii.s  sugges- 
tion, and  Itefore  I  was  twenty-four 
hours  older  I  had  pa!;ke<i  up  my 
portmanteau  and  was  on  my  way 

to . 

One  always  forms  Ixjforohand 
one's  not  if  (lis  of  peiipli'  and  of  places 
—  goJitrally  how  crrDueousare  tliey ! 
.Ml  tiie  journey  through  I  had  been 

jiicturing to  ujyself,  and   of 

coui*s<j  when  I  reached  the  spot  I 
found  my  preconceived  notions,  as 


usual,  quite  nnliko  the  reality  ;  and 
I  confess  I  felt  most  agrei'al>ly  (lisap- 
poiiited  as  I  drove  through  tho  well- 
kept  grounds  up  to  the  door  of  tho 
establi.shment. 

Notlis  iial  infirmary- looking  build- 
ing was  this,  but  a  Imuds  uno  and 
imposing  mansion  whj.'h  many  a 
nobleman  migiit  be  purd  mod  covet- 
ing. I  alighted,  nn  I  as  I  entered 
the  spacious  hall  received  a  he.»rty 
welcome  from  tho  hydropathic  ho.st, 
who  concluded  his  salutations  by 
expres'^ing  his  conviction  that  a  few 
weeks  of  the  treatment  would  re- 
move tho  f-ymptoms  from  which  I 
was  suffrriiig.  This  was  probably 
a  cut  and-ilried  speech  wherewith 
ever}-  fresh  patient  was  greeted,  by 
way  of  inspiring  confidence;  but 
having  no  wish  to  be  regarded  as 
an  invalid,  or  '  treated '  with  cold 
water,  I  deemed  it  well  to  set  tlie 
worthy  doctor  right  at  once,  and 
told  him  1  thought  he  must  have 
mistaken  me  for  some  one  else,  as  I 
had  come  merely  as  a  visitor,  and 
should  not  trouble  him  at  present 
to  prescrilio  for  mo. 
'Oh,  I  bog  your  pardon,'  replied 

he,  'you  are   ^Ir. ,  who  wrote 

to  mo  from ;  I  remember  now 

all  about  it.      How  is  Mr. ?' 

alluding  to  my  friend  who  had 
recommended  my  coming  to  the 
place. 

Having  l)cen  shown  my  room  up- 
stairs, a  plainly  but  comfortably- 
furnished  one,  the  window  of  which 
commanded  a  view  which  in  sum- 
mer must  have  been  exqiiisite,  I 
was  taken  and  introduced  as  the 
last  arrival  to  the  inmates  of  the 
establislnnent. 

The  patients  numbered  bfttwoen 
thirty  and  forty,  of  lioth  sexes,  of 
divers  and  of  ddubtful  ages,  for  tlio 
most  part  bachelors  and  single 
ladies.  Of  these  some  were  invalids 
and  no  mistake,  but  oth(  rs  looked 
quite  halo  anil  hearty.  I  learned, 
h(jwever,  that  all  were  undergoing 
the  treatment,  po  that  I  sliould  l)o 
tho  solitary  looker-on.  The  pre- 
vailing t'>pic  of  conversation  was 
'the  treatment,'  wlii--h  was  expa- 
tiated nj)on  well-nigh  ince.s,s}intly 
and  with  more  or  less  enthusiasm, 
according  to  tho  fLgrco  of  bcnelit 
derived.      There   were  some   who. 


What  Cold  Wdfcr  did  for  me* 


483 


having  pursued  other  systems  with- 
out avail,  had  wound  up  here  as  a 
dernuT  rcssorf.  Th(  y  had  tried  al- 
lopatliy  and  honicpopatliy,  and  I 
know  not  what  otlier  patliy,  and 
now  hydiopatliy  was  taking  its  turn 
— exptcted  to  accomplish  the  up- 
hill work  of  undoing  all  the  mis- 
chief which  preceding  systems  had 
tffectid.  And  one  or  two  had 
ahl3ady  tried  hydropatliy  elsewhere. 
Past  txperience  Iiad,  it  is  true,  not 
been  very  encouraging,  but  then 
they  had  heard  there  was  a  special 

virtue  in  the   water  of  ,  and 

Dr. was  such  a  clever  man ! 

So  judicious  too !  He  knew  exactly 
how  to  suit  his  treatment  to  the 
strength  of  his  patients.  They 
never  felt  so  hopeful  of  recovery  as 
they  did  now;  they  only  regretted 

not  having  come  to sooner. 

With  scarcely  an  exception,  all 
spoke  in  a  similar  strain,  a  feeling 
of  unbounded  confidence  in  the 
system  they  were  at  that  moment 
pursuing  pervading  the  jjarty.  To 
me,  who  never  had  been  initiated 
into  the  mystei'ies  or  the  techni- 
calities of  hydropathy,  the  whole 
process  seemed  unintelligible,  and 
as  I  sat  and  listened  to  the  patients 
descanting  on  the  merits  and  eifects 
peculiar  to  the  '  douche,'  and  the 
'lamp,' and  the  'packing,'  I  fairly 
wondered  what  it  all  could  mean. 
I  know  not  whether  I  felt  the  more 
amazed  or  amused  at  the  learned 
and  elaborate  disquisitions  upon  pa- 
thology, which  some  of  these  ama- 
teurs in  physic  entered  into;  and 
certainly,  to  judge  from  the  fami- 
liarity with  which  medical  terms 
were  quoted,  and  the  readiness 
wherewith  the  anatomical  vocabu- 
lary was  appealed  to,  one  might 
have  supposed  some  even  of  the 
gentler  portion  of  the  company  had 
had  the  advantage  of  promenading 
it  at  Guy's.  In  fact,  I  learnt  more 
about  cutaneous  action  and  reaction, 
about  circulation  and  respiration, 
congestion  and  digestion,  from  sim- 
ply listening  to  what  pa«sed  than 
I  had  ever  succeeded  in  taking  in 
during  my  whole  life  before.  I 
made  no  secret  of  my  ignorance,  for 
which  no  doubt  I  was  much  com- 
miserated, especially  by  one  of  the 
patients,  a  matronly  lady  who  kindly 


undertook  to  make  me  for  the  mo- 
ment her  pnpil. 

'  You  see,  sir,'  she  began,  *  the 
great  advantage  of  tho  hydropathic 
treatment  is  that  it  assists  nature.' 

'  Indeed,  ma'am.  I  presume  when 
nature  needs  assistance  ?' 

'  Precisely.  There  is  in  nature  a 
great  principle  which  physicians  of 
the  old  school  failed  to  recognise, 
the  principle  of  self- restoration.  By 
that  is  meant  the  tendency  in  nature 
to  labour  for  its  own  cure,  and  that 
is  what  hydro]jathy  seeks,  and  seeks 
so  successfully  to  encourage  and  de- 
velop.' 

'  I  have  heard  of  that  projoerty  of 
nature  before  wliich  you  refer  to, 
and  I  do  so  thoroughly  believe  in  it 
that  I  am  convinced  we  should  often 
do  much  1)etter  did  we  leave  her 
alone  to  work  a  cure  for  herself.' 

'  Sometimes,  I  grant,  that  may  be 
so;  but  suppose  nature  labouring 
to  a  disadvantage  with  enfeebled 
organs,  it  may  be  unable  to  develop 
those  symptoms  which  are,  in  fact, 
the  safety-valves  for  the  escape  of 
disease.' 

'  I  dare  say  I  am  very  stupid,  but 
it  seems  to  me,  in  the  absence  of 
symptoms,  we  ought  not  to  concern 
ourselves  about  disease.' 

'  You  do  not  understand  me  quite. 
Suppose  there  to  be  indications  of  a 
disposition  on  the  part  of  nature  to 
exj^el  disease  through  the  cuticle, 
but  only  partially  succeeding,  clo 
you  not  think  we  should  take  a  hint, 
and  seek  to  develoj)  her  external 
acticm  to  the  full  V 

I  began  to  fear  my  learned  in- 
structress was  getting  far  beyond 
me ;  however,  I  reiDlied,  '  Perhaps 
so.' 

'  And  in  case  nature  should  be 
unwilling  so  to  act  at  all,  to  originate 
such  action  ?' 

'  Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about 
that.  I  think  we  are  going  a  little 
too  fast  when  we  set  a'>out  originat- 
ing symptoms  and  suggesting  to 
Dame  Nature  a  course  which  may 
be  far  from  her  purpose.' 

'  So  many,  like  yourself,  have 
thought,  but  the  results  in  multi- 
tudes of  cases  have  jiroved  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  theory,  and  one,  I 
may  say,  the  chief  aim  of  hydro- 
pathy is  to  encourage  such  action — 

2    I    2 


484 


My  Escape  from  IlijdroiiatUy ;  or. 


mainly  oxtonml,  ns  will  tend  to  cx- 
j)cl  disi'aso.' 

'  I  should  Ix)  afraid  of  it.' 

'  Oh,  there -is  notliing  to  ftar  in  it. 
]t  is  the  safest  of  all  systonis  ;  and 
nioit  interesting  is  it  to  watch  its 
working  either  in  one's  own  ca.<!0  or 
in  others',  from  the  co:iiniencement 
of  its  operation  to  the  effecting  of 
its  crisis.' 

'  I  lx?g  yo'.ir  pardon,  I  did  not 
quite  catch  that  word.' 

'  A  crisis,  sir;  a  ciisis.' 

'Then  matters  come  to  a  crisis, 
do  they?  Of  what  nature  is  that 
crisis,  may  I  a.sk?' 

'  Why,  it  varies.  Sometimes  it 
manifests  itself  in  an  acute  attack  of 
the  patient's  present  comjila'nt,  or 
one  of  f^ome  former  jieriod,  which, 
it  was  siii)postd,  had  disappeared 
long  ago;  sometimes  in  violent  sick- 
ness; frequently  in  a  cutaneous 
eruj)tion  which  lasts  for  several 
days,  and  occasionally  a  mild  form 
of  insanity  will  appear;  i>ut,  indeed, 
thrro  is  no  di-ti.'rmining  beforeliatid 
what  form  the  crisis  may  a.ssume.' 

'  What  a  dreadful  state  of  appre- 
hension the  i)atieut  must  he  in  while 
an'i'Mpatiiig  any  such  seizures! 
May  I  ask,  do  all  pass  through  this 
crisis  ?' 

'  No,  liy  no  means  all ;  Imt  the 
most  successful  cases  exp'  rinnce  it. 
Now,  I  ara  expecting  to  pass  through 
this  htage,  1  ma.>  Fay,  daily,  and  I 
do  hope  I  shall  not,  liefiisappoi'itc'l. 
i  have  been  quite  longing  for  an 
attack  of  some  sort  or  other  to  con- 
vince me  of  the  effective  woiking  of 
the  cure  in  my  ca.se.' 

'  And  why  is  this  termed  a  crisis?' 

'  IJecaiise  it  is  the  critical  stage  of 
the  treatment.  It  is  the  turning- 
point  in  the  complaint,  which  is  so 
much  to  he  tlcsired.' 

'  IJiit  the  CO  iqilaint  might  happen 
after ivards  to  take  a  turn  the  wrong 
vviiy.  What  a  sad  consummation 
that  would  l)e!  lias  such  a  thing 
ever  heen  known?' 

'  Whether  such  n  result  as  you 
suggest  has  over  J)cen  known,  I  can- 
not tell  you  ;  but  snon  after  the  ap- 
l)earance  of  the  crisis,  the  treatment 
is  generally  at  an  end,  nu'l  the 
jiatient  quits  the  estal»li>hment.' 

'I  should  say  it  was  then  quite 
tinaa' 


'  I  perceive  you  are  very  sceptical ; 
but  1  don't  despair  of  seeing  >  on  yet 
a  convert  before  leaving  us,  nnd  jier- 
haps  submitting  to  the  treatment.' 

'  No,  I  tliirdv  nut.  The  prosj)ect 
of  some  terrible  crisis,  such  as  you 
have  described,  would  of  itself  deter 
me  from  meddling Mith  hyilropathy.' 

'  Pray  don't  allow  anything  I  have 
said  to  alarm  you.  Perhaps  I  have 
unduly  re])re.'^ented  the  formidable 
niture  of  tiie  crisis.  It  is  by  no 
means  such  a  drcadfid  thing.  Now 
that  gentleman  there  (pointing  to 
one  of  the  patients  on  a  sofa  clo.so 
by)  has  just  i)assed  tlirough  it,  and 
is  going  home  to-morrow.' 

It  may  be  well  to  state  here  that 
the  individual  re'Terred  to  was  the 
picture  of  an  invalid.  Ilis  body  was 
so  thin  that  liis  clothts  seemed  to 
hang  upon  him.  His  face  was  fear- 
fully covered  with  blotches,  as 
though  he  had  recently  recovered 
fremi  tho  small-pox.  What  skin 
there  was  was  deadly  pale.  Alto- 
gether his  aspect  was  truly  deplor- 
able. 

'  He  looks  dreadfully  ill,  poor  fel- 
low,' I  remarked. 

'  I)o  you  think  so  ?  Why,  that  is 
one  of  our  .show  cases.  lIy<lropathy 
has  <lone  wonders  for  that  gentle- 
man. I  cannot  tell  you  what  a 
change  it  liasetTected  in  him.  When 
he  first  came  here  he  was  quite  of  a 
C(trpulent  habit.  His  cheeks  were 
unnaturally  full  nnd  high-coloured, 
and  it  was  plain  his  was  a  case  need- 
ing strong  ti-eatnient.     Dr. paid 

ho  would  soon  alter  all  that,  only 
give  him  time.  And  sure  enough, 
after  ])raisf;worthy  perseverance  for 
two  months,  the  welcome  crisis  su- 
pervene I.  lie  awoke  up  one  morn- 
ing covered  witli  an  infuiity  of  boils. 
For  a  fortnight  or  fo  ho  sulTered 
grievously,  finding  ease  in  no  ))(»si- 
tion.  But  he  is  now  getting  ri  1  of 
this  inconvenience,  and  fast  n  gain- 
ing his  health.     T  am  siu'e  Dr. 

deserves  great  credit  for  tho  case, 
having  wrf)Ught  such  a  change  in 
him  that  his  friends  will  hcarcely 
recognise  him.' 

'  That  I  can  quite  believe.  At  the 
same  time,  I  must  tell  you  \w  is 
about  the  last  jxTson  I  should  have 
thought  of  styling  a  show-patient; 
and  for  my  part,  were  I  so  disligured, 


What  Cold  Water  did  for  me. 


485 


I  would  go  and  hide  myself  some- 
where till  I  had  regained  some  of 
my  good  looks.  Why,  the  mau  will 
prove  aa  antidote  to  hydropathy 
wherever  he  exhibits  lumself.' 

I  was  fortiTiiate  iu  witnessing  this 
case,  for,  as  it  happened,  no  similar 
one  occurred,  nor  did  any  crisis 
transpire,  while  I  was  at  the  esta- 
blishment, at  least,  none  came  to  my 
knowledge ;  but  I  was  told  such 
effects  were  by  no  means  uncommon, 
and  the  simple  view  which  I,  as  a 
plain  man,  would  have  taken  of  such 
a  condition  was,  that  by  dint  of  con- 
stant external  and  internal  applica- 
tion of  water,  the  blood  of  the  suf- 
ferer had  become  so  thoroughly 
impoverished  or  diluted,  that  results 
had  followed  exactly  similar  to  those 
that  arise  from  a  long  course  of  poor 
or  insufficient  diet. 

To  do  them  justice,  the  patients 
appeared  to  go  thrf)ugh  the  system 
in  right  earnest.  All  seemed  to  per- 
sist in  it  with  a  zeal  worthy  of  the 
best  of  causes.  I  detected  no  eva- 
sion of  the  discipline,  or  departure 
from  the  prescribed  rerjimen.  The 
stated  number  of  baths,  and  the 
specified  number  of  libations  to  be 
taken  in  the  day,  were  rigidly  ad- 
hered to,  in  spite  of  any  amount  of 
inconvenience  or  disinclination. 

The  hours  of  the  establishment 
"were  early.  The  place  was  all  astir 
at  six  o'clock,  soon  after  which  hour 
nearly  all  the  inmates  took  their 
first  bath,  and  vain  was  it  for  any 
light  sleeper  like  myself  to  court 
slumber  after  business  had  begun. 
I  could  hear  my  neighbours  over- 
head, or  alongside  of  me,  hard  at 
their  elaborate  aquatic  exercises 
every  morning.  The  same  routine 
of  sounds  was  gone  through  day 
after  day.  First  would  come  the 
pouring  and  splashing  of  water  into 
the  various  tin  reservoirs,  then  a 
slight  pause,  and  one  heard  the  un- 
mistakable plunge  in  of  the  patient, 
not  nnfrequently  accompanied  by  a 
faint  yell  on  encountering  the  first 
shock  of  the  cold  element;  then 
came  a  distinct  thud  upon  the  floor, 
the  patient  was  out  again;  and 
lastly,  you  heard  the  voices  of  pa- 
tients and  attendants  in  conversa- 
tion while  the  former  were  being 
rubbed  down  by  the  latter.     The 


process  of  dressing  being  completed, 
a  walk  of  half  an  hour  or  so  was  the 
next  thing,  unless  the  elements  posi- 
tively foj-bad  such  a  proceeding ;  so 
an  interval  would  succeed,  during 
which  the  house  was  empty  and 
quiet  until  the  clock  struck  eight, 
when  the  patients  rallied  to  the 
breakfast  room. 

A  walk  before  breakfast  in  the 
depth  of  winter  is  a  cheerless  thing, 
especially  when  that  meal  is  at  eight, 
and  the  sun  does  not  rise  much  be- 
fore that  hour.  Still,  although  some 
mornings  it  was  almost  dark,  even 
ladies  turned  out  to  take  their  early 
airing  in  the  gloom,  and  snatch,  it 
was  hoped,  the  pearl  of  health  from 
Nature  while  she  lay  but  half  awake. 
The  result,  however,  of  this  preface 
to  the  day  was  beyond  all  question  : 
it  made  itself  evident  at  the  break- 
fast table  in  the  unmistakable  avidity 
— not  to  use  a  stronger  word— where- 
with all  met  their  meal  whose  appe- 
tites had  had  the  benefit  of  ventila- 
tion. The  fare  was  plain,  but  good. 
You  had  the  choice  of  two  beverages 
— tea  or  cocoa,  coifee  being  a  for- 
bidden thing  ;  choice  of  two  breads 
also — white  or  brown — both  of  yes- 
terday's baking,  if  not  the  day's  be- 
fore ;  you  might,  besides,  have  cold 
meat  or  eggs;  both  if  you  liked,  for 
there  was,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  no 
restriction  laid  upon  the  jDatients  as 
to  the  amount  to  be  taken  in.  The 
facility  with  which  the  well-covered 
table  was  relieved  of  its  morning 
burden  fairly  amazed  me ;  and  as  I 
found  my  own  power  of  appropria- 
tion sadly  inferior  to  that  of  my  fel- 
low-breaiifasters,  I  confess  I  longed 
to  pick  up  somewhat  of  this  hydro- 
pathic hunger. 

How  is  it?  thought!;  these  folks 
are  invalids,  while  I  am  supposed  to 
be  in  health;  still  they  can  eat  a 
liearty  meal  at  eight  o'clock,  and  I 
can't! 

Truth  to  tell,  I  felt  envious  of 
their  appetite ;  my  feelings  probably 
resembling  those  of  a  young  lady  in 
a  ball-room  who,  having  never 
learnt  to  dance,  is  fain  to  be  content 
with  looking  on  at  her  companions 
"nMiile  they  trip  it  on  the  light  fan- 
tastic toe. 

So  far  all  was  very  well.  Thus 
much  of  the  system  was  highly  be- 


486 


My  Escape  from  ITi/tJropalJiy  ;  or, 


Boficial.  Thoro  nre  very  few,  1  feel 
convincoil,  wilt)  wuiiM  iiottiiul  tlicia- 
selves  great  gainers  in  tho  way  of 
lie.ilth  if  tluy  would  but  ti'.ko  to 
early  rising  and  a  ngular  cold  h.\\\\ 
all  through  the  year,  not  omitting 
the  8e<nu'l  of  a  (juick  walk  iu  the 
fresh  air  till  hreakfast  time.  Wo 
should  have  fewer  ooniphiints  of 
seetliness  in  the  morning  if  this 
praetice  were  more  geneially  re- 
sorted to;  and  many  who  sutler 
from  dyspepsia  niight,  I  helievo, 
tlius  wash  otf  the  first  lialf  of  it  in 
tlieir  drtssiiig-rimni,  and  blow  away 
the  other  half  out.side.  But,  as  it  is, 
po:no  dine  late,  others  sup  late;  bed 
is,  for  tho  most  j>art,  not  forsaken 
till  tiie  last  moment;  there  is  an 
tflbrt  to  cram  tho  toilet  into  tho 
Biiiallest  possible  space  of  time,  and 
folks  hniry  to  the  breakfast  room 
fresh  fr.)m  the  land  of  dreams, 
though  anything  but  fresh  as  regards 
phvsii  ill  and  digestive  energies; 
then  they  wonder  that  they  are  not 
hungry  for  their  morning  meal. 
^Vllele  is  the  wonder?  The  stomach 
is  probably  still  contemplating  tho 
tribute  of  the  night  betore,  and  is 
not  just  ytt  looking  for  another 
windfall.  Perhaps,  like  its  owner, 
it,  too,  has  l>een  napping  in  the 
night,  and  has  left  its  work  to  stand 
f)ver  till  next  morning  ;  and  scarcely 
is  it  cause  for  astonishment  if  tliero 
is  an  indis|»osifi()n  to  take  in  ano- 
ther job  while  there  is  still  a  luavy 
one  on  hand.  Too  much  can  hardly, 
then,  bo  said  in  jtiaiso  of  that  ))or- 
tion  of  tho  liydrojiathic  code  which 
knocks  such  hal'its  on  tho  heatl  ; 
and  tliuugh  I  was  a  sufferer,  as  will 
presently  he  seen,  from  the  cold 
water  treatment  generally,  I  will 
not  utttr  a  syllable  in  disparage- 
ment of  tho  fret-breakfdst  part  of 
the  system. 

Amongst  the  patients  I  found  two 
or  three  of  a  congenial  sj)irit,  with 
wli(»m  I  fraternistd  extensively,  e.s- 
jxcially  one,  n  captain,  but  just 
come  home  from  the  Crimea,  aiul 
who,  in  a<ldilion  to  his  medals,  had 
brought  away  a  more  effecfual, 
though  less  welcome,  memento  of 
hiH  CHminigning  in  tho  shape  of 
chronic  rheumuti-m,  for  which  ho 
had  hitherto  vain' \  sought  a  remedy. 
With  this  exctptiou  ho  enjoyed  per- 


fect health,  and  when  free  from  pain 
could  take  his  ten  or  twelve  miles 
walk  as  well  as  any  man.  I  saw  a 
gooil  deal  of  liim,  and  was  nuver 
tired  of  listening  to  his  Ciimean 
anecdotes;  but  we  chatted  on  other 
subjicfs  besides  the  ltus>iin  war, 
and  I  thiidc  our  conversation  gene- 
rally drifted  into  a  discussion  of  tho 
hydro|>athic  system. 

'  Have  you  been  long  at  the  rs- 
tabli.vhment  ?'  1  one  day  asked  him, 
at  tho  beginning  of  our  actjuaint- 
auce. 

'I  have  nearly  spent  a  month 
hero.  I  canio,  I  think,  the  second 
week  in  Decrernber.' 

'And  what  do  \o\\  think  of  the 
treatment?  Are  you  deriving  any 
lx;netit  fnmi  it?' 

'  Well,  my  general  health  is  cer- 
tainly improved;  not  that  I  was 
much  amiss  before;  but  in  a  general 
way  I  feel  invigorated.  As  regards 
my  rheumatism,  however,  which 
was  the  can.so  of  my  coming  here,  I 
nnist  cont'e-s  to  ficling  S')me\vliat  of 
disaiipointmeut.  Perhaps  niy  at- 
tacks of  pain  are  not  quite  po  fre- 
quent as  they  used  to  be;  f>ut  when 
the  pains  do  come  on,  th<  y  are  every 
bit  as  violent  as  they  were  Ixfore. 
But  how  do  you  like  tho  place?  yoa 
are  not  under  tho  treatu.ent,  are 
you  ?' 

'  Xo,  I  am  not  undergoing  tho 
•water-cure,  as  1  scarcely  telt  suffi- 
ciently out  of  sorts  to  warrant  my 
subjecting  myself  to  it.  I  a;u,  how- 
ever, partici|i(iting  so  far  in  tho  sys- 
tem that  I  rise  and  take  my  cold 
bath  two  hours  earlier  than  1  am  in 
the  habit  of  doing.  I  amaNo  tiying 
tho  cxp  rimcnt  of  a  walk  before 
bnakfast,  which  is  quite  a  novelty 
to  me.' 

'  Wliata  p:ty  to  stop  there!  Take 
my  advice,  and  go  in  for  a  course  of 
the  tnatmmt.  Ask  the  doctor  to 
prescribe  for  you  as  he  has  done  for 
me,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  do  you 
good.' 

'No;  I  think  not,  at  present.  I 
shall  content  inysi  If  with  thed  ange 
of  air,  and  of  hours,  mid  of  diet,  and 
see  what  that  will  do  for  nio.  Tliero 
is  one  thing  I  miss  here  dr.ad fully, 
and  that  is  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  drop 
of  l)eer ;  something  lK5tter  than  water 
during  dinner.' 


Wliat  Cold  Water  did  for  me. 


48i 


'All!  I  felt  just  the  same.  For 
some  days  I  was  very  good,  and 
tried  hard  to  gulp  down  the  cold 
water,  but  it  was  no  go,  my  stomach 
wouldn't  fctand  it,  so  I  gave  it  up, 
and  have  since  consoled  myself  with 
a  substitute  upstairs.' 

'  How  do  J  ou  manage  that  ?' 

'  Oh,  very  simply.  I  never  leave 
home,  that  is  to  say,  without  a  tra- 
velling-companion in  the  shape  of  a 
portable  canteen.  It  looks  like  a 
large  dressing-case,  but  it  is  capable 
of  carrying  half  a  dozen  bottles  of 
wine.  On  coming  down  here  I 
brought  my  companion  with  me; 
and  really  it  is  a  most  fortunate 
thing  I  did  so,  for  without  a  little 
stimulant  I  find  I  cannot  get  on.' 

'  But  does  not  drinking  wine 
rather  interfere  with  the  treatment? 
I  have  always  heard  that  it  does.' 

*  Quite  a  mistake,  I  assure  you, 
quite  a  mistake.  The  fact  is,  under 
hydropathy  you  need  stimulants 
more  than  at  any  other  time,  for  it 
has  a  lowering  tendency.  The  doc- 
tor, deluded  man,  supposes  I  drink 
water;  but,  should  he  cure  me,  I 
intend  to  tell  him  that  I  have  had  a 
glass  or  two  of  wine  every  day.' 

'  Would  he  be  much  annoyed  if 
he  knew  it  ?' 

'  Oh,  I  expect  he  would  drop  on 
to  me  pretty  sharply.  He  would  say 
I  had  been  deceiving  him,  and  we 
should  probably  have  a  scene.  I 
wish  to  avoid  this ;  so  when  he  re- 
minds me  to  drink  water  at  intervals 
during  the  day,  I  say  nothing,  but 
mentally  I  label  his  decanters  "For 
external  application  only." ' 

'  You  amuse  me  with  your  dodg- 
ing of  the  doctor ;  but,  I  suppose, 
in  other  matters  you  conform '{' 

'  Yes,  rigidly.  I  take  my  three 
baths  daily;  and  though  I  brought 
a  lot  of  medicine  with  me,  I  flung 
it  all  away,  for  fear  I  should  be 
tempted  to  violate  the  rule  that  pro- 
hibits everything  but  hydrojmthic 
remedies.' 

'  And  are  you  one  of  the  anxious 
expectants  of  a  crisis,  may  I  ask  ?' 

'  JS'ot  I.  Mine,  the  doctor  tells 
me,  is  no  case  for  crisis.  The  fact  is, 
such  things  only  come  on  when  the 
blood  is  in  a  very  bad  state,  or  there 
is  a  malignant  disease  of  some  sort 
in  the  constitution.    But  tell  me, 


what  have  you  heard  about  the 
crisis?' 

'  Oh !  enough  to  terrify  me  from 
having  anything  to  do  with  hydro- 
pathy.' 

'  What  nonsense  !  And  has  that 
been  the  only  thing  to  hinder  you 
from  trying  it?  You  may  depend 
on  it  you  would  never  have  expe- 
rienced a  crisis,  unless,  indeed,  there 
is  far  more  the  matter  with  you  than 
I  take  there  to  be.  But  you  have 
never  told  me  what  brought  you  to 
this  place.' 

'  Why,  you  see,  I  read  and  write 
a  good  deal,  which  confines  me 
mostly  to  the  house.  I  have  led  a 
sedentary  life  for  some  time  now 
without  a  break ;  but  latterly  I  be- 
gan to  feel  I  must  shut  up.  I  could 
not  sleep  at  nights,  and  my  appe- 
tite fell  off  completely;  so  I  came 
off  here  for  change  and  perfect 
rest.' 

'  Is  that  all?  Why,  yours  is  the 
very  case  to  be  benefited  by  the 
treatment.  Do  be  prevailed  upon 
to  try  it.  You'll  lay  in  a  stock  of 
health,  and  go  home  a  new  man.' 

Thus  my  friend  resumed  his 
pleading  for  hydropathy.  Much 
more  passed  upon  the  subject,  he 
arguing  strongly  in  its  favour,  and 
endeavouring  to  dissipate  my  pre- 
judices, and  I  stoutly  resisting  his 
entreaties  that  I  should  give  it  a 
trial,  tdl  at  length — will  it  be  cre- 
dited?—I  gave  in.  In  an  evil  mo- 
ment I  was  i^ersuaded  to  vote  my- 
self a  patient,  and  go  before  the 
doctor  next  morning. 

Dr.  had  a  stated  time  for 

seeing  patients  after  nine  o'clock. 
At  the  stated  hour  in  I  turned  to 
the  consultation-room.  A  victim 
had  that  moment  come  away.  The 
doctor  motioned  me  to  the  chair  but 
just  vacated — a  cliair  in  which  «ome 
hundreds,  probably,  had  sat  before 
me— a  chair  which,  could  it  but  have 
spoken,  might  have  related  many  a 
sad  case  of  suffering.  Some  droll 
tales,  too,  it  might  have  told,  it  may 
be,  for  no  doubt  hypochondriacs 
had  sat  there  also.  Into  that  s-ame 
chair  I  dropped,  the  doctor  assum- 
ing his  regular  consultation  look — 
all  gravity  and  mute  attention — 
while  I  explaiued  my  case. 

'  Doctor,'  said  I, '  I  am  going  to 


■188 


My  Escape  frum  Hydropathi/  ;  or, 


trv  a  course  of  your  treatment  nftor 
all." 

'  I  think  you  nro  very  wise.  Have 
you  anytliin^  particular  tliat  wants 
altcndnij,' ti)?  Anytliinp  about  tho 
systoui  not  working;  nvuU?  Is  your 
general  liealth  },'')(kI?' 

'  Well,  I  ilon't  think  thcro  is 
muclj  wrong  witii  me;  but  I  am 
anxious  to  f^ive  hydropathy  a  trial, 
because  they  tell  me  it  bmelits  tho 
healthy  and  the  strong  as  well  as 
invalids.' 

'  So,  unquestionably,  it  docs.  But 
would  you  just  let  me  tecl  your 
pulse,  and  look  at  your  tonj^uo,  for 
wo  doctors  freiueiitly  discover  iu- 
dicati(ms  of  morbid  action  wlicn  all 
is  supposed  to  be  going  on  well. 
Indeed  it  was  only  yesterday  I  de- 
tected symptoijis  of  a  latent  disorder 
in  a  gentleman  who  quite  ridiculed 
the  notion  of  being  out  of  health— an 
afFeetion  which  was  insidiously  nn- 
dcrmining  his  constitution,  and 
which,  had  it  been  neglected,  must 
ultimately  have  assumed  a  fatal 
form.' 

I  own  I  did  not  quite  like  this 
stylo  of  talk.  Tho  thought  of  being 
preyed  ujion  by  some  concealed 
di.seoKe  wliich  you  do  not  feel  is  dis- 
agreeable, y,  too,  might  j)ossibly 
Ihi  the  victim  of  some  hidden  ma- 
lady, to  b'j  discovered  there  and 
then.  1  made  no  an->wer,  but  just 
lield  my  tongue  in  check  till  his 
was  (|uiet,  when  out  I  shot  it  to  its 
utmost  length.  1  know  not  what 
lie  saw  thereon,  or  what  he  gathered 
from  my  tlirol>bing  vein;  but  ho 
answered  with  a  physician's  '  Hum!' 
and  asKfd  me  if  my  apjK-tite  wa.s 
goxl.  I  admitted  that  it  was  at 
fault. 

'  I  am  not  surprised,'  said  ho, '  to 
hear  it.  I  shouM  have  been  sur- 
pris<;d  had  it  iMcn  otherwise.  Your 
digestion  is-evideiitly  otit  fif  order. 
Hence,  too,  the  l>a  I  iiight.s  which  you 
c/)mji!ain  of.  Your  pul.se  is  full  and 
slupgish;  you  are  su lit  ring  from  — ' 
Here,  inspiriMJ  man,  he  went  into 
an  clalK)rate  diagnosis  of  my  case, 
Ktliiig  loo-o  a  complete  storm  of 
me<licttl  jiirgon,  j»la-ing  me,  as  it 
were,  nnder  his  verlial  show(r-i>ath 
while  ho  ])ulled  the  string,  an  1 
so!ise<l  me  with  a  torrent  of  jdivsio- 
loj^icul  tccbuicaljtios  frum  wiiich  I 


at  length  emerged  very  little  tho 
wi.eer  fi>r  the  inliiclion.  '  Dut,"  added 
lie,  '1  am  hap))y  to  lell  you,  1  can 
discover  no  trace  of  an> thing  like 
organic  disease  al)out  you.' 

This  was  consoling,  and  the  relief 
to  me  was  great.  For  to  one  like 
myself,  unversed  in  medical  phrase- 
ology, it  seemed  as  if  something 
awful  must  result  from  smdi  a  com- 
bination of  verbal  i)ri)digies;  and 
how  it  came  to  pass — unless  on  tho 
princi])lo  that  one  ailment  combats 
another  — that  so  lormidable  a  tiain 
of  anatomical  mechanism  could  all 
bo  out  of  order  ami  jet  produce,  I 
may  say,  nothing,  will  remain  a 
mystery  with  me  to  the  end. 

*'  Weil,  doctor,  what  do  you  re- 
commend me  to  do?'  said  I,  anxious 
to  come  to  something  practical. 

'  I  am  writing  some  instructions 
for  you.  Here  they  are.  Hang 
them  up  on  a  hook  you  will  see 
over  your  bed- room  mantelpieco.  In 
the  morning,  first  thing,  take  a  glass 
of  water — two  if  you  like— then  a 
tepid  bath,  tho  teiniM'iaturc  to  be 
gradually  reduced  till  (piito  cold. 
'Then  walk  till  breakfast-time. 
Another  half-pint  of  water  towards 
eleven  o'clock,  followed  by  a  lamp- 
bath  and  another  walk.  Take  aiumt 
a  ])iiit  at  four  o'clock  and  a  sitz- 
bath  after  it.  Ix't  the  cold  water 
be  ajiplied  to  the  back  of  the  neck 
and  allowed  to  trickle  down  the 
spine.  Mind,  a  walk  after  every 
bath.  Keep  that  up  till  1  teo  you 
again  in  a  few  days'  time.  I  shall 
soon  euro  you.' 

I  departed  with  my  watery  pre- 
scrijition,  ])re]iixred  to  carry  it  out 
to  the  very  letter.  I  confess  I 
dreaded  those  uiqialatable  draughts, 
but  tliey  should  go  down  with  all 
their  tastelessness,  and  not  even  my 
friend  the  cajjtain  should  induce  me 
to  omit  them,  or  touch  a  drop  of 
souKifhing  stronger.  An  attendant, 
one  Jack  Kmart,  was  selected  to  i)ut 
mo  through  my  hydropathic  drill. 
Ho  was  a  cai)ital  fellow  in  his  way, 
who  had  not  s])ent  three  years  at 
the  estalilishmi  lit  in  vain.  He 
knew  all  about  the  treatment,  and 
has  probaldy,  by  this  time,  set  up 
on  his  own  account.  Of  the  two,  I 
preferred  .Jack  infinitely  to  his 
mooter,  because  ho  did  not  seek  to 


What  Cold  Water  did  for  me. 


489 


mystify  me  with  scieutific  bosh. 
His  disitortions  of  his  master's  terms 
were  sometimes  most  amusing.  Ho 
had  a  patient  in  the  room  below,  he 
informed  me,  a  source  of  much 
anxiety  to  him ;  and  almost  daily 
was  I  wicked  enough  to  inquire 
■what  it  was  that  ailed  the  gentleman 
in  order  to  elicit  the  same  descrip- 
tive answer  — '  Conjecture  of  the 
hver,  sir,  conjecture  of  the  liver,' 
His  notions  of  the  action  of  water  on 
the  human  irame  were,  to  himself, 
quite  satisfactoiy,  whilst  to  me  they 
were  as  imauswerable  as  they  were 
entertaining. 

'  I  hope,  sir,  you  drink  plenty  of 
water,'  said  he  one  day,  while  rub- 
bing mo  down. 

♦Why,  Smart?'  said  I. 

'  Because,  sir,  you  needs  it  on  ac- 
count of  all  this  here  perspiration. 
That's  how  'tis,  sir,  as  many  of  our 
patients  don't  derive  no  good.  The 
bath  drains  olf,  like,  what  you  drinks 
in.  But  if  so  be  as  you  takes  the 
bath  only,  and  don't  take  in  liquid 
accordin',  why,  don't  you  see,  sir, 
'tis  just  like  workin'  the  pump 
when  there  aint  no  water  in  the 
well ;  and  that's  it  as  does  the  mis- 
chief to  the  constitution.  But  by 
keepiu'  up  a  good  supply  inside, 
and  workin'  it  out  continelly  through 
the  poies  of  the  skin,  there's  a  con- 
stant flowiu' always  kept  a  goin' as 
draws  off  all  them  things  the  master 
calls  the  acrid  rumours.' 

Far  were  it  from  me  to  dispute 
this  acimirable  theory.  Why  should 
I,  with  no  better  to  replace  it  by  ? 
He  had  others  in  abundance,  equally 
conclusive  and  amusing,  to  which, 
by  dint  of  stnmg  etfort,  I  was  gene- 
rally a  smileless  listener. 

But  few  will  care  to  study  Smart 
upon  hydropathy  ;  so  on  I  pass,  to 
specify  a  saujple  or  two  of  the  pro- 
cesses to  which  I  was  subjected. 
And  of  all  the  inventions  for  bring- 
ing a  man  down  commend  me  to 
the  lamp- bath.  This,  it  will  be 
borne  in  mind,  was  to  constitute  my 
midday  operation.  Accordingly,  at 
the  hour  named,  acting  under  Jack 
Smart's  guidance,  I  proceeded  to 
unrobe.  A  kitchen  chair — one  with 
a  wooden  seat — was  ready  to  receive 
me.  I  sat  therein  in  wonderment 
at  what  was  coming;  but  as  I  be- 


held my  attendant  deliberately  place 
a  light  upan  the  floor  beneath  me,  1 
was  just  as  well  content  that  there 
was  something  denser  than  cane 
wicker-work  between  mo  and  tho 
flamo.  No  sooner  was  I  seated  than 
my  hydropathic  valet  wrapped  a 
blanket  rounel  my  quivering  Irame, 
inclosing  chair  and  light  as  he 
folded  it  around  me.  He  then  ap- 
plied a  secontl  in  like  manner,  and 
a  third,  taking  care  to  leave  no  aper- 
ture by  which  the  cold  air  from 
without  might  gain  access  to  the 
heated  air  within.  There  I  sat, 
enveloped  to  the  chin,  my  head 
alone  emerging,  Sphjnx-like,  at  the 
vertex  of  the  woollen  pyramid.  I 
never  before  knew  how  simple  a 
thing  it  is  to  get  warm,  nay  hot,  in 
the  coldest  wmter's  day ;  but  soon 
I  made  the  discovery  that  none 
need  shiver  long  who  can  command 
a  blanket  or  two,  a  farthing  rush- 
light, and  a  wooden  chair. 

I  may  have  sat  some  fifteen 
minutes,  to  me  it  seemed  much 
more,  when  I  was  led  to  feel  that  all 
below  my  chin  was  gradually  being 
baked.  At  first  the  Marmth  was 
pleasant,  and  I  was  led  to  think  the 
lamp-bath  not  a  bad  thing,  after 
all ;  but  the  temioerature  rose,  and 
rapidly  became  oppressive.  Mois- 
ture oozed  from  every  pore,  then 
it  literally  flowed,  fumes  of  thick  hot 
vapour  forced  a  passage  through  the 
blankets,  enveloping  me  in  a 
cloud  of  steam.  I  felt  I  could  not 
stand  it  any  longer,  and  appealed  to 
Smart  to  set  me  free.  He  urged 
me  to  submit  a  little  longer,  but 
I  said,  '  No,  not  another  ndoment.' 
He  said  the  bath  was  just  beginning 
to  work  beautifully ;  that  1  should 
spoil  its  operation  if  I  stopped  just 
then.  I  replied,  '  I  didn't  care. 
Take  off  these  blankets  instantly,  or 
1  will  rise  and  fling  them  from  me.' 

A  slight  moveuient  on  my  part 
convinced  the  man  I  was  in  earnest, 
so  he  reluctantly  com]ilied.  A  word 
or  two  of  something  like  respectful 
remonstrance  at  my  impatience 
escaped  my  well-meaning  attendant 
as  he  proceedeel  rapidly  to  uncover 
me,  bidding  me  at  the  same  time 
to  lose  not  an  instant  on  emerging 
from  my  wrapping,  but  to  plunge 
forthwith   into   a   cold   bath  that 


490 


My  Escape  from  Hydropathy ;  or, 


awaited  mo  in  the  corner.  Quick 
as  tliDUplit  I  did  so.  Drippinj;  and 
smoking  as  I  was,  I  hurt ii  illy  lay 
down  in  tli(^  cold  water  njiartlit'ss of 
al!  ])rtconctivi'd  nofiousof  the  riskof 
chtc'kinp  pcrsjiimtion  and  so  fortli. 
But  Itow  i-tfrL'>lnng  was  that 
plunfre!  How  delicious  the  sensa- 
tion (if  that  iiistiiiitnneous  cliiil  ! 
My  sufTcriut-'s  while  under  distilla- 
tion Were  all  foip)tten  in  the  luxury 
of  that  luonieiitiry  dij).  Nay,  the 
rtlief  was  so  delightful  that  it  more 
than  comixn.'-ated  for  all  my  baking 
in  tlie  chair,  and  I  resolved  to  go 
through  the  onital  more  patiently 
next  time.  But  little  more  than  a 
second  was  allowed  me — two  at 
the  very  out.side ;  Jack  Smart  was 
waiting  with  a  rough  liathing  slieet, 
into  which  he  summoned  me  with- 
out delay.  And  then  he  set  to 
ruhhing  me.  NVhat  a  famous  rub- 
ber that  man  was !  Had  I  been  a 
horse,  what  a  coat  he  would  liave 
given  me  !  He  seemed  to  throw  his 
whole  strength  into  this  part  of  the 
operation.  As  he  rubhed  he  pressed, 
or  rather  leant,  against  me;  while  I, 
like  John  Gilpin's  horse, '  who  never 
in  that  foit  had  handled  l)een 
l<efore,'  liad  hanl  work  to  hold  my 
ground  agnin^t  the  on.«ets  of  my 
ns.siilarit ;  till  at  length,  iKginning 
liimself  to  j  ant  un<ler  the  elVort,  he 
tt)lil  me  he  thought  that  would  do, 
and  1  might  re-atiire.  So  ended 
the  lamp-hath,  an  appliance  of 
winch  1  liad  heard  the  patients 
talk  so  much,  andofwliich  hitherto 
I  knew  so  little  The  whole  pro- 
cess usually  lasted  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  a  period  of 
physical  excitement,  and  one  in 
which  iiota  little  waseflrcted.  The 
rtsult  of  a  series  of  such  bath.s,  to 
lowering,  so  exhausting  to  tlie  frame, 
must  l>e  obvious  to  the  most  ordi- 
nary thiidcer.  Two  or  three  may 
1m!  taken  with  impunity,  though 
I  have  known  a  strong  man  swoon 
away  under  the  third;  imt  there  are 
very  few  indtcd  who  can  Inar  to 
have  their  strength  day  after  day 
thus  distilled  out  of  them  witliout 
giving  way  lH.'roro  Kuch  treatment. 
So  with  myself.  After  my  lirst 
lamp-hath,  1  felt  much  refreshed. 
It  f-ecmed  to  me  I  had  l>ocn  relieved 
of  a  weight;   I  felt  lighter  every- 


where. In  place  of  losing  strength, 
1  felt  myself  altogether  more  elastic, 
and  my  sensations  gt^nerally  were 
so  satisfactory,  that  I  btcame  en- 
thusiastic in  praise  of  the  bath  in 
question.  After,  however,  my 
third,  I  think  it  was,  I  imagined 
I  had  grown  weaker.  I  rose 
from  my  seat  an\  tiling  but  reno- 
vated ;  and  after  coujing  out  of  the 
cold  water,  I  ffit  more  inclined  to 
go  to  bed  than  to  take  exer- 
cise. I  tried  hard  to  persuade 
myself  'twas  fat)cy.  I  tlumght  to 
walk  it  off,  but  it  wouldn't  do;  the 
walk  I  u.sed  to  take  with  ease  now 
knocked  mo  u)>,  and  I  was  fain  to 
be  S'.itisfied  with  half  the  distance. 
I  told  the  doctor  I  was  losing 
strength.  He  did  not  say  at  once 
the  lamp-bath  had  done  it,  l)ut 
tacitly  he  recognised  the  fact,  for  he 
bade  me  suspend  them  for  the  pro- 
sent.  I  was  to  continue  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  bath  'as  before,' 
but  at  midday  my  attendant  was 
to  '  pack'  me  until  further  orders. 
I  ought  hero  to  mention,  in  jus- 
tice to  the  systtm,  that  the  only 
points  in  which  there  was  a  symp- 
tom of  falling  off  were  muscu- 
lar energy  and  sujjerlluous  flesh. 
Some,  perhaps,  will  think  thtso 
quite  sulliciciit  to  awaken  aj)pre- 
hension  ;  but  in  other  respects  there 
was  improvement.  I  sle|)t  like  a 
top.  My  digestion  had  mended,  for 
my  appetite  approached  the  raven- 
ous. I  sat  down  feeling  what  I  had 
so  eagerly  longed  to  feel  —  hungry  for 
breakfast,  and  my  performance  at 
the  table  did  high  credit  to  the 
treatment.  My  fellow-patients  af- 
firmed they  perceived  improve- 
ment in  my  looks— my  complexion 
was  clearer,  said  they.  It  may  have 
been  so.  Nevertln  less,  I  was 
weaker.  'You  will  soon  regain 
your  strength  '  was  the  con.soling 
assurance  I  met  with  on  all  sides. 
I  hoped  I  should. 

I  have  abstaincl  from  encroach- 
ing on  the  patieme  of  the  reader 
with  a  wearisome  dt  script  ion  of  the 
sitz-iiath,  for  there  is  really  nothing 
in  it  to  de-scriho,  but  jjerhajjs  I 
ought  to  say  a  word  or  two  on 
'  packing,'  for  the  term  ia  by  no 
means  self-ex jilanatory. 

My  first  essay  in  this  damp  diver- 


Wliat  Gold  Water  did  for  me. 


491 


sion  I  shall  bear  in  mind  for  some 
time  to  come,  liavinf;:,  through  the 
caielessness  of  my  attendant,  had  a 
slight  misliap  wliile  undergoing  it, 
which  has  served  to  impress  it  rather 
vividly  upon  my  memory.  Un- 
happily for  me,  my  regular  bath 
mau  was  absent  for  the  day,  and 
I  was  hail  did  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  another  of  the  fraternity, 
•who  proved  but  a  sorry  substitute 
for  the  efficient  Jack  Smart.  1  per- 
ceived this  before  tbe  fellow  had 
been  five  minutes  in  the  room  with 
me.  He  was  dull  and  nnenergetic — 
two  faults  fatal  in  a  hydrojiatliic 
attendant.  At  his  bidding,  how- 
ever, I  undressed  and  turned  in 
between  the  blaukets,  wliile  he  was 
slowly  wringing  out  a  sheet  in  the 
big  bath  already  referred  to.  I  was 
to  be  packed  in  that  sheet.  I 
awaited  the  man  with  an  instinct- 
ive shudder;  and  what  a  shock  it 
gave  me  when  my  flesh  first  came  in 
contact  with  the  cold  wet  linen ! 
What  misery  did  I  endure  whilst 
being  plastered  with  the  icy 
shroud  !  How  horridly  it  held  me 
in  its  clammy  folds !  Over  and 
over  was  I  rolled,  while  the  attend- 
ant coiled  the  chilly  wrapper  roimd 
my  quivering  fiame.  Arms  and 
all  went  in,  everything  except  my 
head  being  bound  up  or  packed 
inside  the  sheet.  In  short,  I  was 
literally  bandaged  like  a  mummy, 
and  lay  as  helpless  on  my  back  as 
any  Egyptian  specimen.  Then,  as 
in  the  case  of  the  lamp  bath,  came 
blankets  in  profusion,  not  merely 
laid  uptm  me,  but  tucked  well  in  at 
the  sides,  depriving  me  still  more  of 
any  motive  power.  And  now  the 
*  packing '  process  was  complete. 
As  far  as  1  can  remember,  twenty 
minutes  was  the  time  prescribed  by 
the  doctor  for  remaining  in  a  state 
of  '  pack ;'  so  I  ordered  the  man  to 
hang  my  watch  up  by  me,  and  then 
bade  him  leave  me  to  my  thoughts, 
telling  him  to  be  sure  and  make  his 
reappearance  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  time.  I  heard  the  door  shiit, 
I  knew  I  was  alone  and  powerless  to 
raise  a  finger  ;  but  it  was  winter  time, 
and  so  I  congratulated  myself  that 
there  was  no  fear  of  a  gnat  settling 
on  my  nose.  The  shiver  which  I 
felt  at  first  subsided  very  quickly, 


the  sheet  soon  acquiring  the  heat  of 
the  enveloped  animal,  and  in  less 
than  ten  minutes'  time  I  was  letting 
off  steam  like  a  boiled  rolly-poly. 
There  I  lay  putfing  on  my  back, 
oppressed  with  the  superincumbent 
weight  of  bedclothes,  longing  for 
my  liberaticm.  What  wretched- 
ness it  was!  The  lamp  bath, 
thought  I,  was  bad  enough,  but 
packing  beats  it  into  fits.  What- 
ever I  endure,  here  I  must  lie  and 
bear  it.  How  eagerly  I  watched  the 
hands  of  my  chronometer  !  What  a 
comfort  to  feel  that  five  minutes 
more  would  see  me  out  of  misery  ! 
But  how  was  this?  It  was 
past  the  quarter,  and  the  man  had 
not  come  back.  I'll  wait  till  the 
time  is  up  before  I  call ;  he  is  sure 
to  be  outside  the  door.  I  kept  my 
eye  upon  the  minute  hand  as  it 
sluggishly  approached  the  longed- 
for  point  upon  the  dial.  At  last  it 
reached  it — the  time  was  up.  '  Hallo 
there!'  shouted  I;  'come  in — the 
time's  up.'  But  it  was  like  shouting 
to  the  winds,  the  fellow  was  out  of 
hearing.  I  shouted  louder,  in  the 
hope  that,  though  he  heard  me  not, 
some  one  else  would,  to  whom  I 
might  communicate  my  plight;  but, 
though  I  fancied  I  heard  sounds  in 
the  adjoining  room,  no  one  seemed 
to  hear  my  bawling.  I  had  better 
lie  fetid  and  submit  patiently  to  my 
fate.  No,  I  could  not.  The  feeling  of 
restraint  alone  had  grown  insupport- 
able, to  say  nothing  of  the  stifling 
heat  which  was  increasing  with 
every  effort  I  made.  I  never  knew 
what  desperation  was  till  then. 
Five-and-twenty  minutes  had  I  Iain 
thus  tied  and  bound,  and  motion- 
less, fixed  in  a  iDosition  which 
seemed  hopelessly  unchangeable. 

Describe  my  feelings  I  cannot, 
but  I  remember  self-reproach  and 
rage  entered  largely  into  them. 
What  a  fool  I  was  ever  to  have  let 
the  fellow  go!  Was  he  coming  back 
at  all,  or  should  I  have  to  wait  till 
night  to  be  released  from  this  state 
of  thraldom?  I  felt  I  should  be 
dead  by  then.  I  was  getting  ex- 
cited. I  thought  I  could  not 
breathe.  How  I  escaped  an  apo- 
plectic fit  I  know  not.  How  I 
struggled  to  get  loose!  Bat  my 
struggles  were  not  wholly  ineffec- 


402 


My  Fscnjw  from  ITydropathy  ;  or, 


lual.  I  found  I  could  bend  my  cl- 
hows  Bufliciiiitly  to  ivst  ujion  thorn; 
tliiit  l)y  ft  vioitiit  clTort  I  could 
draw  luysilt"  up  it  luif^lit  be  an  inch. 
Tiiis  wjus  a  ^'latid  discovciy.  I  per- 
Revorcd  in  the  tlVnit,  dclif^hted  to 
find  I  was  slowly  worniinj;  my  way 
out  of  my  cocoon  of  btdclothes,  till, 
by  dint  of  straiirnt,'  and  forcing,  out 
I  fell  upon  the  tloor,  lead  fonmost, 
conii)letely  extiausted  with  my  ex- 
ertions. I  suppose  I  made  con- 
siderable noise  in  falling,  for  an 
attendant  who  happened  to  1x3  pass- 
ing, ju<l^;ii.g  there  was  something 
wrong,  lapped  and  came  in.  Poor 
man— he  a]ipeared  much  concerned 
at  .seeing  me,  ami  when  he  learned 
the  nature  of  my  mishap,  he  seemed 
to  share  in  some  degree  t!ie  iitdig- 
nation  which  I  felt  with  Smart's 
stupid  deputy.  It  turned  out,  as  I 
suspected, that  the  poid-for-nothing 
felloA-,  who  had  other  patients  to 
attend  to,  had  forgotten  all  about 
me,  his  ill-fated  supernumerary. 

Most  richly  would  he  have  de- 
served his  conge,  and  his  master 
was  fur  turning  him  adrift  the  mo- 
ment lie  heard  of  his  negligence, 
but  I  interceded  for  him,  pleading 
extenuating  circumstances,  and  .so 
the  man  was  kept  on,  to  perpetuate, 
it  may  be,  similar  act.s  of  forgetful- 
ue.ss  upon  su'tseipient  victims. 

The  recital  of  my  misfortune 
elicite<l  much  merriment  from  the 
])atientf',  who  thought  it  a  capital 
joke,  at  the  same  time  one  which 
they  appeared  to  prefer  avoiding, 
resolutions  buing  tliken  there  and 
then  not  to  give  an  attendant  leave 
of  absence  whilst  lying  in  the  help- 
lessness of  '  jiiick.'  I  nee<l  hardly 
say  1  subscribed  lieartily  to  that 
resolution,  ami  in  after  jmckings,  of 
which  I  und(  rwent  a  tew,  1  kept 
my  man  in  the  room  with  me  till 
the  op<nition  was  (piite  concluded. 
1  had  now  persisted  in  the  treat- 
ment for  some  weeks,  King  in  turn 
subjecte<l  to  most,  if  not  all,  of  the 
divers  hydropathic  api)iiances  in 
vogue  at  the  eslalilishmmt.  With 
the  cxcejttion  of  that  awfid  thing, 
the  dou<-he,  those  to  which  I  have 
referred  were  probal>ly  amongst  the 
most  effective,  an  1  told  most  u|K)n 
the  frame.  At  least,  po  I  f(nind 
t  hem.    1  was  manifestly  losing  flesh, 


and  that  fast.  Had  my  los.<i  l)ecn 
computed  by  the  jxiund  I  feel  as- 
sured it  would  have  shocked  me. 
These  pounds  hail  mostly,  I  sup- 
po.se,  gone  off  in  vajjfur,  though  no 
doubt  something  should  bu  put 
down  to  .lack  Smart's  rubbmg. 
But  it  mattered  little  how  they  had 
vani.>?lied,  the  tact  was  b  yond  ques- 
tion. To  this  my  clothes  bore  wit- 
ness. It  was  clear  they  ha  1  been 
made  to  fit  a  bigger  man  than  my 
present  self.  When  I  first  came  to 
the  place  my  garments  were  in 
close  contact  with  my  penson,  but 
now  my  per.son  was  rctnating  from 
them  inwardly,  leaving  a  eliilly 
pas.sage  betwixt  me  and  my  clothing; 
a  sort  of  old  air  flue,  through 
which  a  constant  ventilution  was 
maintained  that  ill  a.ssorted  with 
the  season.  This  diminution  of  ray 
form  Avould  ])erhaps  have  signified 
little  had  it  not  been  accompuiied 
by  weaknes> ;  increasing  weakness. 
1  felt  it  chiefly  in  my  limbs,  from 
the  hips  downward-j.  My  ambu- 
latory powers  were  evidently  oii  the 
decrease.  I  could  not  walk  any 
di>tance  without  wan'ing  to  sit 
down  and  rest.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
hundred  weight  had  been  attached 
to  each  foot,  such  a  labour  was  it  to 
drag  them  after  me.  I  dreaded 
going  upstair.s.  When  evening  came 
on  1  found  myself  reguliirly  done 
up,  and  glad  was  I  to  recline  full 
length  upon  a  couch,  longing  as  I 
lay  for  bedtime  to  arrive.  I  was 
now  beginning  to  feel  some  anxiety 
about  my  case,  not  because  I  had 
grown  thinner,  but  bijcuuse  I  was 
losing  strength.  There  could  not 
now  ix;  any  doubt  t'  at  ttiere  was 
something  wrong,  or  whiit  could  oc- 
casion this  debility?  That  the  treat- 
ment had  reduced  me,  I  never  for 
a  mcmient  doubted,  but  that  did  not 
distress  me,  as  I  thought  1  hnd  some 
spare  flesh  which  I  might  conve- 
niently dispense  with.  Ihit  that 
the  system  I  was  going  through 
contributed  in  any  measure  to  my 
weakness  never  entered  my  ima- 
gination. Of  course  I  told  the 
d.tctor  all  al)Out  it.  According  to 
his  opinion  it  was  my  liver  which 
was  at  the  root  of  my  trouble. 
lie  ftflirmed,  as  doctora  always  do, 
that  mine  was  quite  a  common  case, 


What  Culd  Water  did  for  me. 


493 


that  lie  had  seen  hundreds  such, 
that  symptoms  like  mine  were  tlie 
general  rtsidt  of  inactivity  of  liver. 
*  You  may  consider  yourself  for- 
tunate/ said  he,  '  in  having  come 
here  when  you  did.  Had  you 
placed  yourself  under  some  allopath 
he  would  have  dosed  you  with  ca- 
lomel and  damajjed  your  constitu- 
tion, whereas  you'll  see  we  shall  set 
you  to  rights  without  any  mercury 
or  any  drugs  at  all.' 

'  Well  but,  doctor,'  I  replieil, 
'  can  you  give  me  an  idea  of  the 
time  which  it  may  take  for  the 
treatment  to  work  a  cure  in  my 
case,  because  I  have  now  been  six 
weeks  at  it,  and  am  certainly  lar 
worse  than  when  I  came  here.' 

*  Oh,  don't  say  so.  I  really  think 
you  better.  I  see  the  greatest  im- 
provement in  your  appearance ; 
perhajDs  it  may  be  some  weeks  yet 
before  you  are  quite  yourself.  Only 
persevere  in  the  treatment  and  don't 
distress  yourself  about  a  little  tem- 
porary debility.' 

The  prospect  was  not  cheering. 
Some  weeks  yet!  and  then  only 
'  perhaps.'  I  had  half  a  mind  to 
take  a  dose  of  calomel  on  the  sly, 
but  I  knew  not  how  hydropathy 
and  calomel  might  suit  one  another, 
and  I  feared  I  might  take  cold,  so  I 
submissively  adhered  to  the  treat- 
ment, living  on  from  day  to  day  in 
hope,  anxious  hope,  for  symptoms 
of  returniug  strength.  Bat  vainly 
did  I  watch  for  any  indication  of 
improvement.  On  the  contrary,  I 
was  growing  worse.  Perceiving 
this,  I  became  unhappy.  I  believed 
I  wai  in  for  a  long  period  of  invalid- 
hood,  and  began  to  have  my  doubts 
as  to  whetlier  I  shovild  recover  at 
all.  I  longed  to  be  at  home.  A 
cold  water  estat)lishment  is,  after 
all,  a  lieaitlessi  place  for  one  really 
out  of  htalth,  and  I  had  had  quite 
enough  of  it,  so  I  resolved,  weak  as 
I  was,  to  come  away.  I  commu- 
nicated ray  detei'mination  to  the 
doctor,  who,  after  tiyiug  in  vain  to 
induce  me  to  stay  on,  implored  me 
not  to  consult  an  allopath,  but  to 
persist  in  the  treatment  after  I 
reached  home.  But  how  altered 
was  I !  How  different  did  I  feel 
myself  as  I  crawled  with  difficulty 
up  the   steps  to  my  hall  door  to 


what  I  was  when  I  left  home  some 
two  months  ago  !  What  benefit  had 
I  gotten  by  that  two  nifinths'  change? 
Tliat  it  never  .should  h.ave  occurred 
to  me  to  connect  the  treatiuetit  with 
my  debility  seems  to  myself  amaz- 
ing. I  was  ccmtent  to  believe  my 
weakness  in  the  limbs  arose  from 
some  complaint  or  other,  if  not  an 
aflcction  of  the  liver,  of  something 
equally  serious,  for  which  the  best, 
if  not  the  only,  cure  was  hydro- 
pathy. 

Whilst  at  the  establishment  I  had 
caught  the  mania  from  the  other 
patients,  and  had  become  as  enthu- 
siastic a  believer  in  itsethcacy  as  any 
of  its  most  ardent  devotees.  I  would 
not  listen  to  a  word  in  its  disparage- 
ment, but  was  wont  to  wax  hot  in 
its  defence.  Accordingly,  on  my 
return  home,  I  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  set  myself  up  with  the 
various  hydropathic  paraphernalia, 
resolved  to  carry  out  the  .system  to 
the  best  of  my  ability.  I  embcarked 
a  small  fortune  in  baths,  bathing- 
sheets,  and  water-cans,  not  forget- 
ting the  article  with  the  wooden 
seat  for  the  lampdiath  operation. 
Two  diflficu^lties,  however,  met  me 
in  my  attemp)t  to  set  up  a  private 
water  cure,— one  was  the  erection 
of  a  douche,  the  other  the  supply- 
ing an  equivalent  to  Jack  Smart. 
But  I  was  not  to  be  discouraged, 
and  contented  myself  with  approxi- 
mations to  botti  as  near  as  I  con  Id 
accomplish.  To  set  up  a  veritable 
douche  I  found  out  of  the  question. 
It  involved  letting  in  a  pi2)e  through 
the  ceiling  of  my  room  and  a  reser- 
voir somewhere  on  the  roof  of  my 
house,  so  I  abandoned  the  project. 
But  I  had  my  douche  all  the  same, 
such  as  it  was.  I  procured  a  huge 
syringe,  and  taught  my  servant  how 
to  work  it,  and  with  practice  he  be- 
came quite  expert  in  handling  this 
weapon,  taking  an  excellent  shot 
with  the  jet  and  maintaining  a  steady 
fire  at  the  spot  selected  as  a  target 
for  the  time  being.  But  when  he 
came  to  rub  me,  how  I  missed  Jack 
Smart  I  Oh  !  there  is  an  art  in  rub- 
bing which  not  many  irnderstand. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a  talent  possessed  by 
but  a  few,  of  whom  my  servant  evi- 
dently Avasnot  one.  I  used  to  dread 
rubbing-time  with  him.     I  felt  as 


494 


JIfy  Escape  f)\im  ITi/ih-ojmlhy  ;  or, 


tlKMigh  I  lifid  l>con  scrapod  fill  over 
with  sand  jiipc'r,  my  skin  iHiiit:  in  a 
state  lint  one  rtinovo  from  rawness 
when  this  j>rocess  was  eonclnded. 
Nevertheless  I  horo  it  with  a  pood 
praco,  only  thinkinpr  myself  Ineky  in 
bnvinp  attaiiKMl  so  lair  an  imitation 
of  the  model  I  had  coino  from.  I 
tluis  kept  up  these  hydro)  athic 
})racticcs  all  tliroiiph  the  winter  and 
well  into  thesprinp,  walching  with 
concern  the  constant  increase  ofdc- 
l)ility,and  wondering  whatever  could 
liavo  come  to  me.  I  had  in  my 
youth  heon  much  piven  to  pymnas- 
tics.  1  had  thoupht  notiiiiif]!  of 
hanpinp  by  my  heels  and  doing 
other  inverted  eccentricities  on  the 
horizontal  har.  The  muscles  of  my 
limhs  had  hy  these  exercises  ac- 
quired, when  I  wa.s  yonnp,  a  hard- 
ness and  a  tightness  which  theyliad 
retained.  But  now,  ail  this  firmness 
was  pone.  ]My  thiphs  had  grown 
soft  and  flahhy,  and  were  growing 
more  so  every  day. 

Paralysis  must,  thought  I,  sooner 
or  later  come  upon  me.  What  a 
poser  my  case  was  to  the  doctors ! 
I  consulted  not  a  few,  hut  not  one 
could  detect  physical  di.sorder,  or  a 
symptom  indicative  of  di.-ta'^c,  func- 
tional or  organic  ;  I  was  sound,  said 
they,  in  every  respect,  and  with  one 
consent  they  gave  their  deciiied 
o])inion  against  my  having  any  liver 
affection.  As  my  object  was  merely 
to  di.scover  what  was  the  seat  of  my 
ailment,  I  thought  it  desirable  to 
cou'-eal  from  the  physicians  I  con- 
sulted the  remedies  I  was  resorting 
to.  Probably  any  one  of  tlieni  would, 
liad  I  told  him,  have  said  sullicient 
to  make  mo  drop  the  water-cure  for 
ever. '  Put  I  kept  my  secret  well, 
and  jiaid  well  for  it.  How  long  I 
might  thus  have  gone  on,  or  to  what 
state  1  might  at  the  end  of  a  few 
months  more  have  reduced  myself, 
it  were  dillicult  to  sny,  but  as  the 
weather  was  growing  finer,  I  re- 
solved to  try,  an  a  <lir)ii'r  nsst/rf, 
what  cl  ango  of  air  would  do.  '  Go,' 
said  some  friend  or  other,  '  to  some 
bracing  place  by  the  na-^i.e.'  I 
selectecl  Itamspate— a  bra'-iiig  jtluco 
enough  in  April  in  nil  conscience. 
P.ut  Iiydropathy  was  to  po  down 
with  me;  it  was  only  to  be  sus- 
pended for  a  single  day— the  day  I 


spent  upon  the  journey.  i\ry  i>nrt- 
al»Ie  (liucho  and  liatlis,  all,  I  think, 
were  .stowed  away  in  the  vnn,  for 
fear  I  could  pet  no  baths  at  Kauis- 
gate,  everything  except  the  kitchen 
chair,  which  I  supposed  would  bo 
procurable  anywhere,  the  article 
Willi  the  wooden  seat  U-ing,  I  knew, 
in  universal  vogue.  Here  again  I 
commenced  devotinp  my.self  to  my 
aquatic  remedies,  lielievinp,  like  a 
fool,  that  the  water-cure  would  jet 
do  preat  thiiips  for  me. 

Put  here,  at  b'am^gate,  providen- 
tially for  me,  the  mystery  of  my  case 
becime  at  last  uuravcsUed,  and  I  was 
released  from  the  (Illusion  by  which 
1  had  so  long  been  bound  as  by  a 
spell.  Soon  after  my  arrival  I  had 
recourse  to  one  more  physician,  I 
should  be  afraid  to  aflix  a  number 
-to  him,  I  had  consulted  so  many.  I 
anticipated  nothing  new  fnmi  him, 
but  when  ill-health  has  .set  in  and 
there  is  no  synijitom  of  amendment 
one  is  glad  to  consult  everybody. 
And  I  shall  never  forget  tliat  con- 
sultation. After  submitting  to  the 
same  examination  with  which  I  had 
grown  so  painfully  familiar,  my  new 
medical  advi.ser  remarked, 

'  Tliero  is  no  disease  about  yon 
that  I  can  discover,  hut  your  case 
resembles  that  of  one  who  has  had  a 
severe  cliill.  Are  you  consciiAis  of 
anything  of  the  kind?' 

Not  being  alilo  to  call  to  mind 
having  suffered  from  a  violent  cold 
at  the  time  my  troubles  first  began, 
I  replied  in  the  negative. 

'You  are  .sun;  you  have  had  no 
rheumatic  atTedion  at  any  pcMiod, 
say  within  the  last  twelve  months?' 

'  Not  tjiat  I  ctin  remember.' 

'  Well,  my  imjiression  is,  your  de- 
bility proceeds  entirely  from  the 
spine.  You  may  perhaps  on  some 
occasion  have  slept  in  a  damp  bed. 
or  else  yon  have  made  a  practice  c»f 
putting  on  damp  linen.  I  am  con- 
vinced the  spine  in  your  case  has 
somehow  been  severely  chilled. 
You  cannot  account  lor  it  in  any 
way?' 

A  strange  sensation  came  over 
me  as  he  said  these  words.  The 
truth  darted  in  upmi  my  nu'nd  tor 
the  first  time.  I  lelt  all  in  a  glover, 
wh.ile  my  checks  became  flushed 
with  the  surprise  of   one  who  has 


What  Cold  Water  did  for  me. 


495 


mado  a  startling  discovery.  The 
man  appeared  to  perceive  it,  though 
I  said  nothing,  for  in  a  tone  of 
eagerness  he  quickly  asked  me — 

' '  Why,  what— what  is  the  matter?' 

'Doctor,'  said  T,  '  I  believe  you 
have  hit  npf)n  the  truth,  and  dis- 
covered the  source  of  all  my  trouble. 
I  have  been  for  months,  and  am 
still,  undergning  the  cold-water 
treatment.  Since  December  last  I 
liavc  been  at  it.  Sometimes  twice, 
sometimes  thrice  daily  have  I  un- 
dergone the  refiimen,  ringing 
changes  on  the  hydropathic  roster. 
I  have  taken  sitz-batlis  and  lamp- 
baths.  I  have  been  packed  and 
douched.  Compresses  and  bandages 
have  been  applied  to  me  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  added  to 
which,  the  amount  I  have  taken  in 
in  cold  potations  would,  I  believe, a 
go  far  to  fill  a  small  reservoir.' 

He  smiled,  I  suppose  a  smile  of 
self-satisfaction,  and  replied,  *  Then 
I  do  not  at  all  wonder  to  see  you  as 
you  are.' 

He  then  proceeded  to  make  some 
further  inquiries,  and  I  went  more 
into  a  detail  of  what  I  had  been 
doing.  He  was  bitter  in  his  con- 
demnation of  the  lamp-bath,  and 
further  assured  me,  as  many  other 
practitioners  have  subsequently 
done,  that  the  practice  of  sitting  in 
cold  water,  and  allowing  cold  water 
to  be  trickled  down  the  spine,  would 
take  the  strength  out  of  a  Hercules. 

'  But  tell  me  candidly,'  I  pro- 
ceeded, '  what  is  your  opinion  as  to 
my  recovering  my  strength?  Do 
you  think  there  is  any  prospect  of 
the  muscles  regaining  their  firm- 
ness, so  that  I  may  be  able  to  walk 
as  I  did  formerly  ?' 

'Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you 
have  let  matters  proceed  rather  far, 
and  your  efforts  to  induce  paralysis 
of  the  limbs  have  been  well-nigh 
successful ;  at  the  same  time,  I  see 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  re- 
cover. You  will  excuse  my  speaking 
more  positively.  What  you  have 
now  to  do  is,  of  course,  to  drop  the 
cold-water  treatment,  and  take 
every  means  to  neutralize  its  effects 
upon  your  frame.  I  think,  for  the 
present,  you  had  better  discontinue 
it  even  as  a  beverage,  and  take  three 
or  four  glasses  of  good  port  wine 


instead  every  day.  And,  if  I  were 
you,  I  would  proceed  to  one  or  other 
of  the  German  watering-places,  and 
take  a  course  of  the  natural  warm- 
baths.' 

I  think  I  never  paid  a  fee  with  so 
much  satisfaction,  tor  I  felt  tlie  man 
was  right  in  his  opini  m.  Bat,  how 
I  bla'~phemed  hydropathy!  .Howl 
loathed  the  very  sight  of  every  thing 
connected  with  the  system  !  I  was 
far  too  weak  for  any  act  of  violence, 
otherwise  it  is  proV)a!)le  I  shoui.t 
have  spent  half  an  hour  or  so  in 
giving  vent  to  my  exasperation,  and 
smashing  up  my  wiiole  apparatus, 
wooden  chair  included,  with  the 
poker.  How  I  now  rated  myself  for 
my  own  folly,  simpleton  that  I  had 
been!  I  could  blame  no  one  ebe, 
for  I  was  a  free  agent,  and  had 
yielded  to  the  force  only  of  per- 
suasion. 

Yet  I  was  still  far  from  being 
sanguine  of  recovery.  What,  thought 
I,  could  bring  back  strength  to 
limbs  that  had  once  lost  it?  What 
possibly  could  impart  firmness  to 
muscles  that  had  once  grown  flabby  ? 
Ho-wever,  I  resolved  nothing  should 
remain  untried  which  my  last  ad- 
viser had  recommended,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  start  for  some  Ger- 
man Bad.  Which  of  them  all  was 
it  to  be  ?  For  some  days,  Granville, 
on  the  Waters  of  Germany,  was  rny 
study ;  and  after  a  careful  perusal 
of  this  work — the  only  one  uj^on 
the  subject — I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Wildbad  would  be  the 
place  for  me.  To  Wildbad,  accord- 
ingly, I  hastened ;  and  ere  a  week 
had  expii'cd  I  was  dipping  in  its 
waters.  Before  doing  so,  however, 
I  called  in  one  more  doctor,  a  Ger- 
man thi^time,  by  name  Haussman. 
I  was  told  it  was  not  safe  to  bathe 
without  advice.  He  struck  me  as 
being  a  sensible  and  intelligent 
fellow ;  the  only  thing  he  said  which 
shook  my  faitli  in  liis  opinion  being 
his  confident  assertion  that  I  should 
leave  Wildbad  quite  strong,  and 
able  to  walk  about  with  ease. 

The  springs  of  Wildbad  are  very 
warm — considerably,  if  I  mistake 
not,  over  the  temperature  of  the 
blood — yet  I  was  to  commence  by 
remaining  half  an  hour  immersed  in 
them  to  the  chin,  increasing  by  de- 


40fi 


77(e  luter-Dnifi'rxifif  Gumrs. 


procs  tlie  poriod  of  imiiRrsion,  till  I 
pjv  nt  i\  wliolij  hour  ill  tlu>  water. 
1  liii<I  always  held  tlio  notion  that 
warm  l>atliiii,u'  iiiilncod  wi'akiK'ss; 
but  this  was  to  pivc  strtiifith !  I 
confess,  I  went  to  tli.s  licw  tystciu 
with  Koiiic  niis^ivifif^. 

I  coiihi,  of  cour.-e.  pet  no  port 
wine,  l)1it  I  strove  to  console  uiy- 
eelf  witli  f-parkling  Moselle  inshad, 
which  I  dare  say  is  every  hit  as 
etrenfrtheiiitig  a  l)eveia{^'e  for  au 
invalid,  whilst  many  times  moro  ro- 
freshinp. 

I  stayed  at  a  Iiotcl,  where  the  faro 
was  excellent,  thoupti  anythinp  but 
plain  ;  a  first-rate  i/imr  a  la  Jt'nssc 
Ix-'inp  served  up  every  day,  to  which 
I,  notwithstaiidiiip  my  intirniities, 
did  aujple  j>isti>'e.  llero  I  abode 
fiouic  weeks,  batliiup,  eating,  and 
drinking,  thinking  all  the  wliilo 
what  a  jolly  lil'i;  this  was,  if  I  were 
only  Well,  though  williiiuly  would  I 
have  exchanged  the  Moselle  and  the 
Frencli  cooking  for  a  mutton  chop 
and  a  pla'is  of  water,  with  the 
Btrtnglh  I  formerly  enjoyed. 

At  the  end  of  my  first  week  I 
foui.d  myself  no  better,  nor,  indeed, 
at    the   expiiation   of  a   fortnight; 


and  I  was  in  deppiir ;  but  wl  en 
three  weeks  had  passed,  1  imngiii«il 
I  feltRomewliiit  less  exhaustion  a' t«r 
trying:  to  take  exercise.  It  miulit  Iw 
my  fancy  ;  l>ut  it  encouraged  me  to 
persevere,  and  1  diil  so,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  lew  weeks  more  there  were 
evident  symptoms  of  returning 
strength. 

Yes,  1  could  now  manige  a  mile, 
and  eve?i  walk  up  stairs  without  the 
sensation  of  lifting  a  hundrcil-weight 
attach  step.  With  what  delight  did 
I  hail  these  iiidications  of  returning 
strength!  I  l»elieveil  ttiat  1  had 
turned  the  corn»  r,  and  that  my  re- 
covery was  only  a  ipiestinn  of  time. 

And  so  it  proved.  I  lelt  Wildhad 
a  ditlVrent  man.  Health  being  niv 
sole  object,  1  spent  sonic  mouths  in 
travelling,  ge'.ting  daily  better,  till 
1  grew  ([uite  string. 

All  tliis  hajipened  a  few  years 
ago,  and  I  know  not  that  1  am  now 
any  the  worse  for  what  I  wont 
through.  l\rhaps  I  am  the  better, 
for  I  have  learnt  troiu  my  experience, 
a^  a  gei.eral  rule,  to  avoid  pliying 
tricks  with  my  constitution,  and  in 
l)irticular  to  give  a  wide  berth  to 
hydropathy. 


THE  INTER-UNIVERSITY  GAMES. 


TrilTT.,Y  the  amateur  pedestrian, 
athlete,  and  pyiuna-t  have  no 
cau«;e  to  laiiunt  any  derlino  in  their 
favourite  jjursuits  during  the  last 
few  years,  and  jiarticularly  during 
the  yeirr  i86fi.  .Since  the  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  games  were  held  on  the 
Christchurch  ground  (ir  the  third 
time  [only)  in  that  year  \te  have 
seen  an  amateur  clianipi.iii  iiKetiiig; 
an<l  an  extraonb'i.ary  number  of 
cluiis,  new  ami  old,  lave  held  me<t- 
inps  in  all  jiarfs  of  the  kingdom. 
Few,  if  any,  of  Ihese  meeting.^ 
have  liowevcr,  a.s  yet  attained  e-pnil 
prestige  with  that  which  took  i)lar'0 
for  the  fourth  time  at  ]'.eanfort 
IIoiiK',  Walhain  (ireen,  on  Hie  12th 
of  April,  1867,  namely,  the  Oxfonl 
and  Cambridge  athhlic  pames.  It 
is  utmeces.sary  to  s|)eak  <if  Ihi  ir 
])opularity;  for  this  none  could 
doubt  who  were  present  and  saw 


the  course  thronjred  by  eager  spec- 
tators (by  far  the  greati  r  number 
pro  Irtiming  their  ]iarti.sansliip  by 
costume  as  well  as  demeanour),  or 
who  heard  the  re-echoing  shouts  of 
'  Pitmnn,  Michell,  Ijmj,  Scott,  and 
Pelliam.'  Although  we  are  one  of 
tlio-e  who  liope  that  in  future  years 
the  games  will  again  be  held  at  the 
Universities  themselves,  yet  the 
sight  was  one  which  was  worth 
going  miles  to  see,  and  to  wifne.<a 
one  lialfof  thocontrsts  which  took 
place,  and  of  which  we  can  only 
liojic  to  give  some  faint  i<lea,  would 
have  amply  repaid  a  visit  to  tie 
pround. 

►Since  wo  left  the  Chiistchurch 
ground  on  the  loth  of  ]\Iarch,  1866 
(when  the  sounds  of  '  I.aing'  and 
'  Long',  were  yet  in  our  ears)  pre  it 
chiingcs  have  taken  ]ilace  in  the 
athletic  positions  of  iKjth  Uni^tr- 


Tlie  Inter- Universily  Gamf'S. 


497 


sities.  At  Oxford  an  University 
Atlilctic  Clul)  li<as  been  formed  siuii- 
lar  to  that  founded  in  1S65  at  Cam- 
bridge ;  and  alro.nly,  wo  think,  llie 
fruits  of  united  action  ujay  be  traced. 
The  frequency  of  contests,  and  the 
ftpportuiiities  for  prac'ice  which  the 
foundation  of  such  a  club  affords, 
cannot  fail  to  bring  out  talent  which 
otherwise  would  liave  remained 
quite  unexercised. 

At  both  Universities  running  paths 
have  been  laid  down,  each  one-third 
of  a  mile  in  length;  that  at  Cam- 
bridge being  in  the  form  of  a  flat- 
tened oval,  and  that  at  Oxford  of  a 
rectangle  with  rouuded  angles.  The 
style  which  running  on  a  path 
usually  produces  is  not  at  present 
so  apparent  as  nu'ght  have  been  ex- 
jiected,  there  being  still  a  good  denl 
of  flat-footed  running,  but  this  will 
doul)tless  vanish  in  time.  Very  fast 
races  indeed  have  been  run  during 
the  last  year  on  the  Cambridge  jmlli 
(which  is  a  faster  path  by  a  good 
deal  than  the  Oxford j ;  and,  in  fact, 
it  may  be  taken  to  be  one  of  the 
easiest  and  best  running  paths  in  the 
kingdom.  We  thisik  if  some  of  the 
old  light  blues  who  once  donned 
flannels  in  the  old  pavilion,  and 
afterwards  subscribed  to  build  the 
new  one,  coidd  seeFenners  on  a  fine 
afternoon  in  the  end  of  March,  they 
would  indeed  wonder  at  the  energy 
and  go-a-head  spirit  displayed  by 
young  Cambridge.  The  Oxonians, 
too,  are  waking  up,  but  they  will, 
we  are  sure,  pardon  an  old  hand  for 
saying  that  it  was  not  before  the 
time  had  come  for  so  doing.  We 
must  not,  however,  delay  too  long 
at  the  post,  for  the  starter  has  given 
the  word  '  get  ready ;'  and  we  have 
a  long  though  vory  pleasant  task 
before  us  in  attempting  to  give  to 
those  who  could  not  be  present  a 
brief  account  of  the  Inter- University 
Games  in  1867. 

The  nine  events  included  in  the 
programme  were  the  same  as  those 
of  last  year,  but  they  were  arriinged 
in  a  different  order,  so  that  Maitland 
and  Little,  who  rejoresented  their 
respective  Universities  in  both  jump- 
ing and  running,  might  have  their 
lighter  work  first. 

At  a  (|uavter-past  two  there 
emerged  from  the  l)lack  ring  of  spec- 

VOL.  XI.  — NO.   LXVI 


tators,  who,  in  raidcs  four  and  five 
deep,  thronged  liOdrly  the  whole 
course,  four  figures,  all  equally  keen 
to  score  first  blood  for  their  own 
side.  The  light  blue  was  repre- 
sented by  T.  G.  Little,  of  St.  Peters, 
whose  name  is  enough  to  frighten 
any  ordinary  jumper  out  of  the  field, 
and  who  has  lately  striven,  but  not 
with  equal  success,  on  the  running 
l^ath,  and  C.  E  Grten,  of  Trinity, 
well  known  to  all  'Varsity  cricketers. 
Oxford  were  sujiported  by  F.  W. 
Parsons,  of  Magdalen,  who  jumped 
so  pluckily  for  them  last  year,  and 
F.  S.  O'Grady,  of  St.  John's,  a  young 
one,  who  will,  to  all  ai)pearances, 
mftke  a  very  good  one  as  tiuje  goes 
on.  The  bar  was  placed  at  4  ft. 
10  in.,  which,  I  need  hardly  say, 
they  all  cleared  ;  and  it  was  raised 
two  inches  at  a  time  up  to  5  ft.  6  in., 
and  one  inch  afterwards.  At  5  ft. 
7  in.  Parsons  went  out,  and  the 
last  hope  of  Oxford  died  away 
when  O'Grady  failed  in  clearing 
5  ft.  8  in.  Green  and  Little  now 
held  a  short  conference,  and  ulti- 
mately decided  to  jump  once  more. 
The  bar  was  accordingly  raised  to 
5  ft.  9  in.,  which  Little  cleared, 
but  Green  could  not.  Thus  the 
Can  tabs  scored  one  two  for  the 
first  event,  a  result  which  was  truly 
foreshadowed  by  the  results  of  the 
two  University  Games,  in  which 
Green  jumped  5  ft.  7J  in.,  and 
the  Oxonians  tied  at  5  ft.  4  in. 
Little  has  somewhat  lost  the  cer- 
tainty of  his  jumping,  as  he 
knocked  the  bar  down  several  times, 
whereas  formerly  he  seldom  jmniDed 
more  than  once  at  each  height. 
Green  jumped  with  great  steadi- 
ness, never  failing  until  5  ft.  7  in. 
O'Grady  is  a  very  good  and  likely 
jumper,  tucking  his  legs  well  un- 
derneath him,  and  making  sure  of 
each  try ;  and  the  liglit  blue  will 
find  in  him  an  awkward  customer 
next  year  if  he  coiitinues  to  improve 
on  his  present  as  much  as  he  has 
done  on  his  old  form.  There  is 
nothing  that  astonishes  outsiders, 
and  those  who  have  not  seen  much 
of  athletic  games,  more  than  good 
height  jumping.  The  effort,  or 
rather  the  force  required  to  raise 
from  eleven  to  thirteen  stone  over  a 
bar  5  ft.  9  in.   high  can  be  better 

3  E 


498 


Tlie  Inier-UnicersUy  Games, 


imapirod  tlmn  Rppreoiatcd,  and 
I'spocially  when  it  is  iMiuiulKred 
thiit  llio  spring  is  made  fr<  m  ono 
ft>ot  alone.  In  ycai-s  pone  \<y  5  ft. 
3  in.  \va.s  llionght  a  woiuierfiil  jump, 
and  tlie  idt'a  of  a  man  juiiii)iiij,'  5  It. 
8  in.  or  5  ft  9  in.  from  ordinary 
turf  was  never  dreamed  of.  These 
lieiplits  will  perl)ai)s  be  in  their 
tnrti  l)eaten ;  hut  wo  think  that 
Koiipi  11,  Little,  and  Green  will  long 
l>e  the  luythieal  lieroe.-^  of  jnmi)ers. 

When  the  four  starters  trottctl 
down  to  tlic  post  for  tlie  100  yards, 
one  could  see  in  the  demeanour  of 
the  Oxford  partisans  a  perceptii)le 
gleam  of  confidence,  and,  indeed,  it 
was  not  misplaced,  for  they  ran  J.  M. 
Colmore,  of  lkaseno.se,  wlio  was  so 
iinniislakeably  tin'  hundred-yard 
runner  of  1866,  when  he  won  tho 
Oxford  Cniversity,  Inter-University, 
and  Amateur  Chamjuon  100  yards. 
His  fellow  champion  was  J.  Somer- 
vell, of  St.  John's  College,  who 
proved  himself  a  first-class  man. 
Cambridge,  however,  seem  at  last  to 
have  brought  out  a  sjirint  nmner  in 
the  person  of  E.  A.  Pitman,  of  St. 
John's,  to  whom  we  shall  have  again 
to  allude  in  tliis  brief  history.  The 
light  blue  was  also  worn  by  C.  C. 
Corfe,  of  Jesus  College,  who,  al- 
though not  .second  in  the  University 
(Jauies,  challenged  the  .second  man, 
M.  Timjileton,  of  Trinity,  and 
having  defeated  hiin  wa.s  chosen  as 
second  hoi-so.  After  .several  false 
starts  and  breaks  away  tluy  got  off, 
not  too  eveidy,  wlitn  Colmore  first 
shot  out;  at  fifty  yards  Pitman  was 
decidedly  in  the  rear,  Somervell  and 
(-"olmore  appurently  sliutting  hiui 
out;  but  atalxmt  fifteen  yards  from 
home  ho  came  with  a  rush  such  as 
is  seldom  seen  in  to  short  a  race, 
and  landed  the  light  blue  by  alx)ut 
eight«en  inches.  Colmore  wius  se- 
cond, but  not  much  in  front  of 
Somervell,  and  the  time  f)f  tho  win- 
ner was  10 1  s(;conds.  This  per- 
formance .stamps  Pitman  as  (piito  in 
the  first  da-ss  of  fi|)rint  riiiir<  rs.and 
he  has  vastly  imjtroved  .>iiiice  he  ran 
in  18A5,  wlien  h(!  vva«  Ixaten  in  the 
R<»cond  lieat  for  tho  100  by  Pel  ham 
and  Hood. 

We  fancy  Colmore  could  not  face 
tlie  wind  as  i-trongly  as  the  winner, 
for  he  ectmcd  to  us  to  die  away  in 


tho  last  fifteen  yards,  and  Corfe,  of 
whom  mu'h  was  expet-ted,  did  not 
soi'iu  in  his  best  form.  \\  henever 
the  four  men  meet  again  u  wonder- 
ful race  may  be  expected,  but  cer- 
taiijly  at  ])resent  Pitniiui  must  Ih) 
stamped  tho  best,  from  the  way  in 
whieli  he  caught  his  men  in  the  last 
fifty  yards. 

The  next  event  on  tho  card  wa.s 
the  I'road  Jump,  and  it  produced  a 
most  exciting  contest,  the  result 
l)eing  in  doubt  up  to  tho  very  last 
jump.  The  Oxford  representatives 
were  W.  F.  Maitiand  and  W.  G.  Eii- 
wards,  both  of  Christchurch ;  the 
Camliridge,  C.  A.  Absoloui,  of  Tri- 
nity, and  the  inevitable  Little.  The 
Cantal)S  were  the  favourites,  as 
their  broad  jump  was  twenty  inches 
better  than  that  at  Oxford  ;  butgcwd 
judges  knew  it  would  be  no  walk 
over,  as  Maitiand  last  year  covered 
19  ft.  II  in.,  and  Little  has  notl>een 
jumping  up  to  his  old  form.  Each 
competitor  was,  a.s  usual,  allowed 
six  jumps,  taken  in  order,  but  the 
man  who  has  made  the  best  jump 
reserves  his  tries  until  he  is  Inaiten. 
At  his  third  jump  Maitiand  covered 
19  ft.  10  in  ,  and  the  two  Cantabs 
did  all  they  knew  to  Wat  it,  but 
without  success,  until  Altsoloin, 
with  his  very  last  try,  maiic  the 
magniticent  jump  of  20  ft.  2  in. 
Maitiand,  who  had  been  (like  Little 
last  year)  calmly  observing  their 
efforts  to  roach  him,  now  had  his 
tliree  reserved  'tiies,'  and  at  his 
fiftii  attemjit  he  cleared  20  ft.  i  in., 
but  ono  inch  Ixihind  Ab.solom;  no 
further,  however,  ccmid  he  get,  and 
so  tho  light  blue  scored  tho  third 
win  in  succession. 

It  seems  rather  preauraptivc  for 
any  one  (even  an  old  hand)  to  jue- 
tend  to  advise  such  adepts  in  jiunp- 
ing,  but  it  did  strike  me,  in  marking 
how  often  these  first-class  men 
faded  to  jump  nearly  their  lK!St, 
t!at  they  di  1  not  run  to  the  'take 
ofT'  in  what  u.sed  to  lie  considered 
the  scientitic  manner;  they  so  fre- 
quently jiatter,  i.  '■.,  take  very  short 
steps,  when  nearing  tht;  mark. 
Now  I  have  always  observed  that 
tho  iK'st  jiimjis  are  ma<le  win  n  a 
man  gets  thoroughly  into  his  stride, 
and  comes  down  to  the;  mark  at  his 
top  speed,  which  no  man  can  do  if, 


TJie  Inter-University  Games. 


499 


instead  of  striding  out,  ho  is  pal- 
pably shortening  his  step.  Of 
course  much  must  depend  on  a 
man's  power  of  judging  his  dis- 
tance, but  I  am  convinced  that  much 
is  sacrificed  to  the  idea  of  taldng 
very  short  ste]is,  in  order  to  get 
nearer  to  the  talce  otf ;  it  is  quite  as 
easy  to  judge  the  distance  for  long 
strides. 

The  competitors  for  the  Broad 
Jump  bad  iiardly  left  the  ground 
when  the  four  Imrdle  champions 
entered  it.  In  this  contest  the  light 
blue  was  worn  by  Mr.  Fitzherbert, 
of  St.  John's,  who  last  year  won  the 
Amateur  Champion  Broad  Jump, 
and  by  H.  M.  Thompson,  of  Trinity, 
who  in  the  years  1865  and  1866  ran 
in  the  final  heat  of  tlie  hurdles  at 
Cambridge,  being  beaten  by  the 
great  Tiffany,  Milvain,  and  Hood. 
In  this  year  he  fell  and  was  beaten 
in  the  fir.-<t  heats,  but  on  public  form 
he  should  have  won.  For  Oxford 
there  ai»[ieared  A.  Hillyard,  of  Pem- 
broke, and  C.  N.  Jackson,  of  Mag- 
dalen ;  the  former  of  whom  ran 
without  success  in  the  Oxford  Uni- 
versity hurdles  in  1866.  After  a 
very  level  start  they  ran  almost  to- 
getlicr  to  the  third  hurdle,  Thomp- 
t'On  being  then  in  the  rear.  Jackson, 
the  Oxford  second  horse,  now  came 
out,an  1  runningwith  great  strength, 
led  all  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  won 
by  two  feet  from  Thompson,  who 
jame  up  very  well  in  the  last  five 
hurdles.  The  style  of  all  four  was 
good,  and  tlie  time  also,  considering 
the  wind.  Oxford  thus  scored  their 
first  win,  and  their  spirits  revived 
again.  We  think  that  it  is  a  very 
near  thing  between  Jackson  and 
Thompson,  and  if  they  were  to  run 
four  or  five  times  the  results  might 
be  strangely  variable. 

In  Putting  the  Weight  all  the 
competitors  were  new  hands  except 
R.  Waltham,  of  St.  Peter's,  who  wore 
the  light  blue  last  year,  and  was  then 
second  to  Elliott,  also  of  Cambridge. 
His  fellow  competitor  was  Absolom, 
the  winner  of  the  Broad  Juraj) ;  and 
for  Oxford  there  appeared  T.  Batson, 
of  Lincoln,  and  W.  Burgess,  of 
Queen's.  Waltham,  at  his  very  first 
attempt,  put  the  shot  the  'really 
great'  distance  of  34  ft.  7  in.,  and 
then    stood   out  whilst  the  three 


others  made  their  eighteen  attempts 
to  beat  it,  Batson,  of  Oxford,  suc- 
ceeding in  reaching  31  ft.  11  in, 
and  Absolom  was  close  tip.  When 
Waltham  had  been  declared  the 
winner,  he  took  his  five  remaining 
tries,  and  with  one  of  Ihem,  the 
fourth,  he  put  34  ft.  9  in.,  which 
was  the  put  of  the  day.  Since  this 
competition  was  first  introduced 
each  year  has  shown  an  improve- 
ment, but  we  fancy  that  it  will  be 
some  time  before  Waltham's  per- 
formance is  snrpa-sed. 

The  next  race,  the  One  Mile,  has 
always  been  c(msidered  as  one  of 
the  events  of  these  meetings,  and 
both  sides  anxiously  hoped  for  a  win. 
I  wish  I  had  space  to  do  more  than 
briefly  enumerate  the  names  of  the 
starters,  and  give  some  idea  of  what 
they  each  have  done  previously; 
but  anything  like  a  correct  account 
of  their  performances  would  take 
long  indeed.  There  started  for  Ox- 
ford S.  G.  Scott,  of  I\Iagdalen,  and 
T.  W.  Fletcher,  of  Pembroke.  Scott 
ran  second  to  Laing  in  the  Oxford 
University  Mile,  being  beaten  by 
five  yards  in  4  min.  46  sec,  Fletcher 
being  third;  the  latter,  it  will  also 
be  remembered,  ran  for  Oxford  in 
the  Mile  last  year.  The  Cambridge 
men  were  W.  C.  Gibbs,  of  Jesus 
College,  E.  Royds,  of  Trinity  Hall, 
and  T.  G.  Little.  Gibbs,  who  ran 
for  Cambridge  last  year,  has  been 
but  little  before  the  world  of  late, 
as  he  sprained  his  foot  some  few 
weeks  since,  and  was  unable  to  com- 
pete in  liis  University  Games,  but  he 
won  a  mile  handicap  at  Cambridge 
in  the  spring  in  4  min.  36  sec. 
Royds  is  'the  same  which  was' 
second  to  Garnett  (and  a  very  good 
second  to  a  very  good  man)  in  the 
four-mile  Amateur  Champion  Race 
at  Beaufort  House  last  year  ;  he  also 
won  the  Cambridge  Mile  this  year 
from  Long  in  4  min.  36  sec.  Little 
we  all  know  as  a  jumper,  and  as  a 
runner  ho  has  been  doing  a  good 
deal  of  late,  and  is  doubtless  best 
known  by  his  defeating  several  men 
in  the  Trinity  Hall  open  half  mile 
this  year,  and  by  his  performance  in 
the  two  miles  against  Oxford  in 
1866.  As  will  have  been  seen  from 
the  above  statistics,  the  race  looked 
on  paper  a  good  thing  for  Cam- 

2  K  2 


600 


TJie  Inter- University  Games. 


bridfro,  especially  as  Lninp,  who  lins 
been  tloiiip  woiulors  at  every  dis- 
tance, was  Irtiiie  ami  miuMe  to  start. 
The  mee  itself  does  not  admit  of 
nmch  descrijition,  as  after  tlio  tirst 
lap  (there  being  three  in  all)  Seott 
t(H»k  the  lead,  and,  rnuning  with 
preat  strength,  won  by  six  yanhs 
from  Royds.  The  latter  spurted 
very  gamely  in  the  last  lap.  hut  wo 
think  he  should  have  made  more 
effort  to  ktej)  elo«e  to  his  opponent. 
The  time  was  4  min.  41  Pe.\  Scott 
is  a  runner  of  very  great  promise ; 
he  has  a  very  good  and  steady  style, 
without  any  great  showiness,  but  a 
wonderful  amount  of  strength  ;  and 
we  fancy  that  if  the  running  was 
made  for  him  through  the  first 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  he  would 
do  it  in  tirst-rate  time.  Royls  has 
also  shown  himself  a  very  good  man, 
but  he  is  very  weak  at  the  end  of 
his  races. 

And  now  the  attention  of  all  was 
turned  towanls  what  may  be  justly 
styled  the  third  blue  ril)hon  of  ihu 
meeting,  the  Two  Miles,  One  Mile, 
and  Quarter,  decidedly  l>eing  the 
races  in  which  most  interest  is  cen- 
tred, and  the  next  event,  viz.,  the 
Quarter,  produced  one  of  the  most 
magniticeut  struggles  and  gamest 
race<  ever  seen.  The  Camhridgo 
starters  were  the  renowned  F.  G. 
Pelliam,  of  Trinity,  who  has  for  two 
years  l)orne  her  colours  to  the  fore, 
and  E.  A.  Pitman,  the  100  yards 
winner.  These  two  ran  first  and 
Becond  in  the  Cambridge  games, 
when  Pelham  gained  a  decisive  vic- 
tory, although  Pitman  ran  a  most 
dtttriuineil  race.  The  Oxford  were 
AV.  F.  ^hxitland,  who  was  lK.Mten  by 
two  yards  oidy  by  W.  G.  Knight,  of 
Magdalen,  the  Oxford  champion  in 
'65  and  '66,  and  W.  J.  Frero,  of 
Magdalen,  who  was  third  in  the 
Fame  race.  The  times  at  the  two 
Universities  were  as  nearly  as  pos- 
fiblo  t(jual ;  but  the  contidence  in 
the  almost  invincible  Pelham  caui-ed 
the  ('anta'M  to  be  made  hot  fa- 
vouritf.''.  At  the  word  '  otT  '  Pitman 
dai-tc«l  out  in  the  nK>stextraordiiiary 
manner,  and  increasing  his  sjK.ed,  at 
I  ;o  yards  hud  a  lead  of  twelve  yards. 
iJounding  tlie  Ijcnd,  Pelham  and 
Maitland,  au<l  afterwards  Frero, 
closed   up  to  him,  and   fifty  yards 


from  homo  they  were  all  together, 
and  Pelham  began  to  show  in  iVont. 
Shouts  of  '  Pelham,'  '  Maitland,' 
'  Pitman'  resounded  on  all  sides ;  but 
instead  of  going  clean  away,  as  he 
is  v.ont,  at  about  fifteen  yards  from 
the  tape,  Pelliam  faltered,  when 
Pitman,  coming  with  the  giimest 
jiossible  rush,  won  by  two  yards; 
^laitland,  Piiliam,  and  Frero  were 
all  together,  but  the  judges  gave  it 
by  a  head  to  Maitland.  This  de- 
cision did  not  give  universal  satis- 
faction, as  some  thought  Pelham 
pulled  off  second  place;  but  we  be- 
lieve the  majtuity  upheld  the  deci- 
sion. The  time  was  jnst  under  5a 
seconds,  and,  considering  the  wind, 
was  indeed  fast.  Pitman  has,  as' wo 
liave  already  said,  proved  him.self 
one  of  the  gamest  and  best  rimners 
in  England,  and  we  are  sure  both 
he  and  Maitland  will  pardon  lis  for 
saying  that  they  had  a  stroke  of 
luck  in  defeating  Pelham.  It  is 
very  seldom  Pulham  dies  away  in 
the  last  fifty  yards,  and  our  own 
idea  is  that  ho  was  weak  on  the 
day.  Frere  also  both  proved  lu'm- 
self  quite  first-class;  in  fact,  where 
all  are  so  good  it  f-eems  unfair  to 
particularize.  The  contest  itself 
was  the  finest  race  for  a  quarter  we 
ever  saw. 

The  eighth  event  in  the  pro- 
grauuue  was  Throwing  the  Hammer, 
v\hieh  is,  to  our  minds,  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  grai-efnl  con- 
tests. Oxford  had  W.  H.  Croker,  of 
Trinity,  who  in  1865  represented 
his  University  at  Putting  the 
Wiight,  and  in  1S66  was  with 
Morgan,  in  Throwing  the  Ibinuner; 
the  second  representative  was  W. 
ileadley,  of  University.  Canihridgo 
were  represented  by  G.  R.  Thorn- 
ton, of  Jesus,  the  winner  of  last 
year,  and  J.  JJ.  Eyre,  of  Care.  The 
Cambridge  men  have  much  im- 
])roved  in  this  exei'cise  since  last 
year,  when  Thornton  won  with  86 
feet.  For  the  first  few  tries  the 
cf)ntest  was  fairly  ejual,  E\ie  and 
Criiker  having  the  Kst  of  it,  when, 
with  his  third  try,  the  former 
luirkd  the  '  iK)nderous  missile'  98 
ft.  ro  in.  This  was  a  really  si)lendid 
throw,  and  was  remarkal>lo  IccauBe 
it  was  in  a  dead  straight  line  from 
the  centre  ol  the  scratch,  and  at  right 


The  Inter-Unkersiiij  Gtimes, 


501 


angles  to  it,  whereas  many  of  the 
others  were,  to  say  tlie  least,  erratic. 
Thornton  was  second,  witlian  almost 
equally  soocl  throw  of  97  ft.  3  in.; 
Crokor  being  first  for  Oxford  with 
90  ft.  10  it).  We  were  surprised 
to  see  tliat  the  university  autho- 
rities still  kept  to  their  old  w;iy 
of  measuring  the  length  of  the 
throws,  viz.,  from  the  centre  of  the 
scratch,  because  at  so  many  meet- 
ings the  fairer  way  of  measuring  by 
pax'alle!  lines,  or  lYom  the  Ibotstep 
of  the  thrower,  has  been  adopt ed, 
owing  to  the  manifest  advantages 
gained  by  crooked  throws  in  the 
old  method.  This  victory  made  the 
light  blue's  sixth  win,  which,  as 
may  be  imagined,  cau^ed  the  Oxo- 
nians no  small  disappointment. 

After  waiting  but  a  very  few 
minutes,  the  eyes  of  all  were  turned 
to  the  six  athletes  who  were  starting 
for  the  last  and  greatest  content, 
the  Two  Miles.  The  «dark  blue 
jersey  was  worn  by  E.  L.  N.  JMi- 
cliell,  of  Christchurch  (brother  of 
E.  B.  Michell,  of  Magdalen— the 
Diamond  Sculler — who  in  1865  ran 
for  Oxford  in  the  Mile),  the  winner 
of  the  two  miles  race  at  Oxford 
this  year,  by  J.  H.  Morgan,  of 
Christchurch,  and  J.  W.  Fletcher, 
of  Pembroke.  Fletcher  we  already 
know  ;  Morgan  is  a  young  one,  luit 
likely  to  be  a  good  one  some  day. 
The  light  blue  sent  out  G.  G.  Ken- 
nedy and  C.  H.  Loug.  both  of  Trinity, 
and  A.  E.  R.  .Micklefield,  of  St. 
John's.  Kennedy  defeated  Long  in 
the  Cambridge  University  two 
miles  this  year,  but  only  by  two 
yards,  in  10  min.  10  sec.  Long, 
we  need  hardly  say,  is  the  same 
that  ran  such  a  gallant  race  with 
Laing,  of  Christchurch,  last  year. 
The  Oxford  University  time  was 
10  30,  so  that,  on  public  form, 
Kennedy  or  Long  ought  to  have 
won,  even  taking  into  account  the 
difference  of  the  respective  paths  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  At  starting, 
Micklefield  went  oif  at  a  great  pace, 
followed  by  Michell  and  Long;  but 
after  half  a  mile  Morgan  passed  the 
two  latter  and  raced  with  Mickle- 
field until  the  end  of  the  first  mile, 
which  was  done  in  5  min.  3  sec. 
Through  the  beginning  of  the  second 
mile  Morgan  led,  with  Long  and 


j\richell  not  far  behind,  and  Ken- 
nedy, who  was  slightly  outpaced, 
15  yards  in  the  rear.  Entering  the 
last  quarter,  Long  drew  rajiidly 
a'uiad,  and  at  250  yards  from  the 
iinish  was  ii  yards  in  front  of 
Michell.  Then  again  the  dark  blue 
crept  up,  and,  on  entering  the  150 
yards  straight,  a  most  determined 
set-to  took  j)lace.  Each  was  loudly 
cheered  and  called  on  by  their 
friends;  and  after  running  together 
for  the  last  60  yards,  Michell  threw 
himself  in  front  of  the  post,  and 
won  by  a  bare  foot.  The  time  was 
10  minutes.  Morgan  was  third ; 
and  Kennedy,  who  would  have 
fiuisheil  very  fast,  was  knocked  over 
by  the  crowd.  We  never  saw  a 
more  magnificent  struggle ;  in  fact, 
the  pluck  which  lias  always  cha- 
racterized these  races,  and  especially 
the  long-distance  races,  almost  sur- 
passes that  displayed  in  any  other 
pedestrian  contests,  amateur  or 
professional.  For  Laing,  Long,  and 
Michell  to  have  run  twf)  such  races 
as  the  Two  Miles  in  1866  and  1867, 
the  one  a  dead-heat,  the  otlier  won 
by  a  foot,  speaks  for  itself.  Michell 
is  as  game  a  runner  as  ever  stepped, 
and  has  a  very  lasting  style.  He, 
moreover,  ran  with  great  judg- 
ment in  not  endeavouritig  to  race 
with  Long,  when  he  went  ahead  at 
the  beginning  of  the  'last  quarter;' 
and  Ave  certainly  think  that  Long 
was  wrong  in  doing  so,  for  had  he 
left  it  later,  and  made  the  effort  in 
the  last  150  yards,  we  think  the 
result  might  have  been  reversed. 
These,  however,  are  idle  specula- 
tions: Michell  won,  and  won  well. 

So  ended  the  Inter-University 
Athletic  Sports  in  1867  ;  and  while 
the  crowd  are  clearing  away,  and 
the  excitement  is  subsiding,  let  ns 
look  a  little  at  the  respective  merits 
of  the  competing  parties  and  their 
champions. 

In  this  year  Cambridge  were  first 
in  the  Quarter  Mile,  the  Hundred 
Yards,  the  High  Jump,  the  Broad 
Jump,  Putting  the  \Veight,  and 
Throwing  the  Hammer.  Oxford 
were  fir&t  in  the  Two  Miles,  One 
Mile,  and  Hurdles.  Cambrid>j;e  were 
second  in  the  Two  Miles,  One  Mile, 
Hurdles,-  Hi^h  Jump, and  Hammer ; 
Oxford   in  the  Quarter,  Hundred, 


i02 


Tlie  Inter-Uiiivrrsiti/  Games. 


I>io:x<l  Jump,  and  Weijjrlit.  In  all, 
l'imil)ri(!j:«f  gninc"!  6  first,  and  5 
secnnil  plact's;  and  Oxfoid  5  tiist 
niid  4  sfcond. 

L(K)kin}i:  hack  thri)Ui;li  tlio  vista 
of  tlie  last  rt'tirinK  ytiii'^,  wo  rc- 
meiuUr  that,  in  1S64,  Camhridpc 
liad  4  tir>t  and  7  second,  again>;t 
Oxford's  4  liist  and  i  seooud ;  in- 
1S65,  Cainliridpn  6  first  and  6 
st'cond,  Oxford  5  first  and  3  i-econd; 
and  in  1S66,  Canil)rid^'o  5  first  and 
3  second,  against  Oxfoid  3  first  and 
5  second;  imd  there  was  one  dead- 
heat.  Dark  bine,  take  care!  Cani- 
hridge  are  well  ahead  again  this 
year,  and.  from  what  we  hear,  mean 
to  do  iR-tter  still. 

We  always  feel  it  an  invidions 
task  to  ppeuk  of  individual  merit, 
where  al  I  are  so  good  ;  and,  strangely 
enongh,  there  were  so  many  cham- 
pions in  1867  who  took  part  in  more 
than  one  contest,  which  makes  the 
task  of  selection  even  more  ditticnlt. 
Little  appeared  in  three,  Pitman, 
Maitlami,  Ahsolom,  and  Fletcher  in 
two  each  ;  hut  in  looking  for  the 
'viet)r  ludorum,'  if  one  there  lie,  we 
feel  that  the  nominal  honour  which 
was  in  1864,  hy  general  consent, 
given  to  Uarbyshire,  in  1865  to 
Webster,  and  in  1S66  to  Laing, 
must  in  1867  fall  on  K.  A.  Pitman, 
thi'  winner  of  the  (Quarter  and  the 
Hundred  Yards;  and  none  will,  we 
think,  deny  that  he  has  fairly  earned 
the  title. 

It  is  curious  to  notice  that  in 
1864  the  Oxonians  and  Cantal)s 
won  respectively  exactly  what  they 
have  in  this  year  lost,  and  the 
victory  has  Ikjcu  secured  by  the 
new  contests  intniduced  in  the  later 
years, ami  by  one  hurdle-race  liaving 
l>e(U  struck  out  from  the  jjro- 
gramme. 

The  Judges  were  :— for  Oxford, 
li.  A.  H.  Mitchell,  of  Hailiol.  Eton, 
lord's,  Ac,  Ac,  and  K.  K.  Webster, 
of  Trnity,  aiul  lateof  Fenner's;  l)oth 
of  wlioe  names  are  Kullicient  gua- 
rantee of  their  suital>ility  for  tiic 
post  The  Hefereo  was  the  Piev. 
'1'.  II.  T.  Hopkins,  of  >bigdalen, 
Oxford,  than  whom  no  Intter  could 
be  founi,  for  he  is  one  who  for  years 
has  taken  a  lively  interest  in  all 
athletic  pursuits. 

Three  men   there    wore  of  last 


year's  champions  whoso  absence 
we— and  not  only  wo,  but  all  except 
perhajis  tho.se  who  would  have  had 
to  run  agiiinst  them  —  regretted; 
they  were,  Laing,  of  C'liristchurch, 
Nolan,  of  !St.  Julm's,  Oxford,  and 
Cheetham,  of  Trinity  Hall.  Jt  needs 
no  words  of  oui-s  to  recall  liow 
ably  they,  in  1S66,  wore  tlie  dark 
blue  and  the  light ;  and  doubtless 
on  a  future  occasion  tiiey  will,  in 
racing  slang,  '  be  heard  of  again.' 
Lamg  was  lamed,  we  hear,  from 
ruiming  on  the  path  ;  Nolan  has 
been  ))rohii>itod  from  running  for  a 
time;  and  T.  H.  Cheetham  sprained 
his  knee,  and  it  was  thought  unwise 
for  him  to  try  it  by  training. 

We  tried  again  this  year  to  trace 
the  e<lucati(jDal  ])edigrees  of  the 
winners  and  competitors,  but  as  it 
seemed  rather  peculiar  for  an  elderly 
stranger  to  ask  them  all  where 
'  they  were  raised,'  we  liad  to  l)0 
content  wi^h  but  scanty  gleanings. 
This,  however,  is  the  result  of  tl.eiu, 
Harrow  claims  Long,  Maitland, 
Ktnnedy,  and  Somervell;  Eton, 
Peiham,  Thompson,  and  Koyds; 
Green  hails  from  LJ(ii)ingluuu,  Col- 
niore  from  PiUgby,  O'Cirady  from 
Charterhouse,  and  Oibbs  from  Marl- 
borough, whilst  Prighton  '/ollege 
trained  the  young  ideas  of  Pitman. 
Turning,  however,  to  colleges,  where 
(thank  the  secretariis)  the  cards 
s|)eak  for  themselves,  we  see  that 
Cliristchurch  claims  the  lion  t-haro 
of  the  Oxfonl  champions,  and  Mag- 
dalen the  next.  At  Cambridge, 
though  Trinity  leads  the  van.  yet 
Jesus  maintains  the  athletic  fame 
that  a  Thornton  first  gave  it,  and 
St.  John's  claims  Pitman  and  two 
others. 

We  are  sorry  that  some  of  the 
changes  proposed  by  ni'iny  who  take 
interest  iu  these  games  have  not 
been  this  year  visible  in  the  ))ro- 
gramnie.  First  and  foremost  we 
would  nitntinn  the  introduction  of 
a  walking  race,  which  we  still  thiidc 
would  produce  such  an  admirable 
contest  and  al\va.\s  an  exciting  race. 
Wo  have  lieen  told,  and  have  no 
niLsou  to  doubt  it,  thit  the  seven 
mile  walking  race  at  Cambridge 
wiLs  this  year  won  by  a  cf)mi»irativo 
novice,  and  that  inimy  who  entered 
and  walked  well  had  only  practihed 


TJie  Inter-University  Games. 


503 


for  a  few  weeks.  Oxford,  too,  now 
has  walking  races  in  some  of  her 
college  sports,  and  wc  can  see  no 
reason  for  longer  delay  in  introduc- 
ing one  at  the  Inter  -  University 
Games.  Another  change  which  we 
think  would  be  for  the  better  is  the 
proposed  substitution  of  a  four  mile 
for  the  two  mile  race  for  reasons 
which  are  obvious.  One  point  more 
suggests  itself  to  us :  why  is  not  the 
High  Pole  Jump  included  in  the 
programme  ?  1 1  is  a  most  admirable 
exercise,  and  when  well  done  about 
the  most  graceful  and  exciting  thing 
possible.  A  friend,  to  whom  we 
are  indebted  for  much  valuable  in- 
formation, informs  us  that  both  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  it  is  but 
little  practised :  we  can  only  say  we 
are  sorry  to"  hear  it,  for  in  days  gone 
by  it  was  a  favourite  amusement 
of  many. 

Before  closing  our  brief  and  hur- 
ried memoir  we  feel  tempted  to  say 
someihing  about  the  removal  to 
London  of  these  annual  festivals. 
Looking  at  the  question  from  the 
point  of  view  of  outsiders,  and  not 
regarding  '  dons '  with  the  eyes  of 
an  undergraduate  or  even  through 
the  medium  of  the  ideas  with  which 
the  undei'graduates  of  the  present 
day  endeavour  to  imbi;e  us,  we  do 
feel  that  those  most  respected  func- 
tionaries ('  dons')  have  been  guilty 
of  shortsighted  policy.  The  meet- 
ing has  to  us,  even  as  outsiders, 
lost  half  its  charm — the  run  to 
Oxford  or  Cambridge  the  night 
before,  when  the  majority  of  the 
competitors  met  together,  and  with 
friendly  chaff  talked  over  the 
chances  of  the  morrow ;  in  London 
they  are  scattered  far  and  wide,  and 
have  no  chance  of  all  or  even  many 
of  them  seeing  one  another.  Be- 
sides, we  do  most  assuredly  believe 
that  the  mutual  visits  to  either  Uni- 


ver>!ity  were  engendering  a  liberal 
spirit  towards  each  other,  and,  in 
their  quiet  way,  working  nmch 
good.  Of  course  the  arguments  on 
the  other  side  can  be  readily  ima- 
gined— the  discipline  and  quiet  of 
tlie  University  is  for  one  night  set 
totally  aside,  and  indulgence  and, 
in  some  cases,  excess  are  the  con- 
sequences. Now  this  may  be  all 
perfectly  true,  though  we  ourselves 
doubt  it;  but  our  experience  of 
University  men  is,  that  putting  a 
stop  to  what  was,  in  its  worst 
form,  but  the  superabundance  of 
youth  and  animal  si^irits  is  not  the 
best  way  to  make  men  more  ame- 
n  ible  to  discipline  and  rule  at  other 
times.  We  have  stated  before,  and 
we  can  only  repeat  it,  that,  looked 
ujwn  from  an  outsider's  point  of 
view,  athletic  games,  both  at  and  be- 
tween the  Universities,  have  worked 
a  vast  amount  of  good,  more  perhaps 
than  often  falls  to  the  share  of  other 
more  worthy  schemes  of  mental 
or  bodily  improvement;  and  we 
believe  that  to  dwell  upon  the  abuse 
of  them,  or  upon  the  evils  connected 
with  them,  is  not  the  way  to  coun- 
teract the  abuses.  In  short,  if,  as 
we  are  told,  the  games  are  to  be 
permanently  removed  to  London 
because  of  the  excitement  and  dis- 
turbance which  prevailed  on  the 
farmer  occasions  on  which  they  have 
been  held,  we  believe  that  they  will 
soon  lose  their  character,  and,  it 
may  be,  decline  both  in  interest  and 
importance. 

For  another  year,  dark  and  light 
blue,  we  wish  you  farewell,  and  be 
sure  that,  whether  your  next 
'  Olympia '  are  held  in  London,  at 
Oxford,  or  Cambridge,  we,  old  and 
rheumatic  though  we  be,  hope  to 
be  there  to  witness,  to  admire,  and 
it  may  be  to  record  your  efforts. 
D.  D.  E. 


504 


THE  LAST  RCN  WITH  THE  STAGHOUXDS. 


''FIIIO  inralnation  of  woman!  No 
L  sooner  wius  Mrs.  Ftlix  made 
uwarc  of  lier  husband's  ])id\v('.s-i  in 
the  fluid  than  sho  insisft d  on  his 
hunting  sointthini;  bi-tttr  tlian  a 
poor  little  haro.  Slio  Itogan  to  read 
up  encj  cIojuL'  iiits  on  all  iiiattf  rs  oon- 
ccrning  tlio  anciunt  sp  irts  of  Eng- 
land. Sho  bnsioil  herhulf  witli  tlie 
history  of  the  Ibnrii-s  to  find  how 
often  tluy  wtnt  myally  chasing  Iho 
det-r.  She  coinpelled  Felix  to  order 
a  pcarlet  oat;  and  set  her  eldest 
girl — that  po  ir  little  mite  of  a  thing 
with  a  chirping  voice  so  unlike  the 
resonant  ori:aa  of  her  mother— to 
sing  'Old  Towler.'  Sho  was  inrlig- 
nant  at  the  pnsilianiniity  of  her 
hushanl  in  not  aiding  his  unceilain 
bass  to  the  chorus, 

'  This  day  a  stag  must  die ;' 

but  ho  escaped  by  observing  that 
the  air  was  set  rather  high  for 
him. 

I'\'lix,  on  the  other  hand,  was  by 
no  means  loth  to  ceas-o  his  connec- 
tion witli  the  '  thistle- whipi  ers.' 
After  having  killed  Lorl  Skntchem's 
Ust  hound,  ho  had  no  particular 
wish  to  see  either  the  pack  or  his 
lord>hip  again;  and  as  a  keen,  bar- 
baric desire  to  hunt  an<l  kill  was 
growing  up  in  his  respectable  citizen 
soul,  my  fritnd  turneil  his  attention 
to  the  stnghonuds.  Ho  l)ecftme  ac- 
quainted with  some  gentlemen  of 
the  nearest  hunt;  he  talked  of  a 
big  subscription;  he  made,  without 
seeking  my  advice,  Inrge  additions 
to  his  staples  (a  circuinstance  which 
had  marly  sundere<l  our  friendship); 
and  at  k  ngth,  having  Ixen  asked  to 
ft  break  fa.st  which  was  to  celebrate 
n  grand  meet  in  tlio  Kouth  of  Kent, 
lie  got  Mr.  Whcafear  to  incliuh)  nio 
in  the  invitation,  and  together  wo 
went. 

The  meet  was  somewhero  ft1x)ut 
eighteen  miles  from  the  iJeechcs ; 
and  as  we  had  to  stnd  our  horses  on 
the  previous  evening  down  to  the 
nearest  vjllngo,  I  had  noopportiinity 
of' criticising  in  a  friendly  manner 
the  new  purchase  which  Mr.  Kelix 
proposed  to  ride.     Next  morning, 


however,  saw  ray  friend's  wago- 
nette drive  round  to  the  door  of  his 
house;  and  1  iiad  the  pleasure  of 
witnessing  Mrs.  Felix,  in  tho  utmost 
goigeousnes.s  of  her  attire,  superin- 
tend the  (lis))osition  of  the  whole  of 
lier  children  inside  tlio  vehicle.  Sho 
had  como  forth  to  witness  the 
achievements  of  her  loivl.  She  hud 
just  discovered  that  Ahrtd  the  Great 
was  a  famous  hunter,  and  that  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor  dearly  loved  to 
follow  u  ]«iek  of  hounds;  and  she 
was  striving  to  determine  whether 
she  would  liken  Mr.  Felix  to  Sir 
Walter  Tyrrell  when  her  husl)and 
took  the  reins  in  his  right  hand,  tho 
whip  in  lii.s  left,  tho  groom  let  tho 
hor.so's  head  go  free,  and  away  wo 
wout. 

But  we  liad  not  gore  tw(nty  yards 
when  Mr.  Felix,  fnmliling  with  tho 
rein.s,  had  taken  tho  i.ff  wheels  of 
the  wagonette  on  to  the  lawn.  Ho 
wrenched  at  the  liorse's  mouth; 
down  they  came  again  with  a  bang 
upon  the  path  ;  the  horse  stood  up- 
right on  his  hind  legs  for  i-everal 
seconds,  and  had  iii^irly  thrown  Mr.s. 
Felix  out;  then  he  sftt  off  with  a 
great  clatter  aloig  tla;  gravelled 
avenue.  Felix  Hung  tho  whip  into 
the  road,  and  held  ou  by  the  reins 
with  l)otli  hands ;  but  tho  next  mo- 
ment there  wa.s  a  terrific  crash,  tho 
wooden  jiost  of  tho  gate  was  hurled 
down,  Mr.s.  Felix  was  tilted  over 
upon  her  four  children,  while  her 
husband,  suddenly  resolving  to  sa- 
crifice his  dignity  in  order  to  secure 
the  safety  of  his  neck,  l>esought  mo 
to  add  my  streiigtli  t(jhisin  liolding 
the  reins,  lliit  the  hor.«o  was  in 
reality  no  fire-eater,  although  ]\Irs. 
Felix,  so  soon  as  ho  was  (juieted, 
hysterically  insisted  upon  her  hus- 
band selling  him  otT-hand  for  twenty 
poumls;  while  i-lie  kept  her  arms 
oulstretcheil  in  a  llntteriiig  manii»;r 
over  her  children.  Felix,  with  his 
white  lips  and  treinliling  finger.s, 
lookerl  as  though  he  woul.i  have 
parted  with  him  for  ten  ;  and  with 
a  gnat  and  rather  comical  cITort  to 
appear  t^elf-ixj.s.sus.'-ud,  asked  if  I 
wouid  '  take  tho  reina  a  bit  until  he 


The  Last  Bun  loitJi  the  Slaghoiinds, 


505 


lit  a  citrar.'  I  took  tlao  reins,  and 
he  lit  the  cigar;  Imt  as  he  showed 
no  signs  of  cugcrnoss  to  liavo  tliem 
baclc  Again  1  cliangcd  seats  with 
him,  an(i  we  placiWIy  drove  down 
the  long,  quiet,  undulating,  and  not 
nnpictnrcS'inc  road  which  here  cuts 
Kenh  into  east  and  west. 

'Oil,'  he  suildcnly  cried,  'what 
have  I  done  with  the  whip?' 

'  The  last  I  saw  of  it,'  I  replied, 
'was  the  crop  sticking  out  of  a 
laurel-hush.  Peojilo  generally  do 
find  a  whip  held  in  the  left  hand 
rather  in  the  way.' 

'  Of  course,'  he  said,  with  a  look 
of  indifference,  but  with  a  rosy 
blush — '  of  course  I  held  it  there 
until  I  should  settle  in  my  seat,  only 
that  ugly  brute  broke  away  without 
giving  me  a  chance.' 

And  as  we  passed  through  the 
quaint  little  villages  and  along  the 
pleasant  country  lanes,  symptoms 
of  the  coming  hunt  began  to  show 
themselves.  It  was  to  be  a  very 
fine  affair,  and  all  the  country-side 
had  come  out  to  see  the  show. 
Vehicles  of  every  description  crept 
up  hill  and  rumbled  down  dale  in 
the  one  direction;  people  came  out 
from  the  cottages  and  houses  and 
took  the  same  way ;  gentlemen  on 
horseback  trotted  peacefully  by, 
taking  as  little  as  possible  out  of 
their  animals.  Then  the  morning, 
which  had  been  rather  dismal,  gave 
promise  of  better  weather ;  and  as  a 
few  faint  shafts  of  misty  light  broke 
through  the  dense  dull  gray  of  the 
south,  Mrs.  Fells  brightened  up 
wonderfully,  and  vowed  the  scenery 
was  liner  thiiu  any  photographs  of 
Switzerland  she  had  ever  seen. 

Felix  did  not  seem  so  enthu- 
siastic. 

'  How  many  people  would  be  on 
horseback,  did  you  say?'  he  asked. 

'  Probably  over  two  hundred.' 

'  And  many  si^ectators ?' 

'  Half  a  mile  of  them :  every  one 
a  keen  critic,  from  the  ladies  in  their 
carriages  to  the  clodhoppers  along 
the  hedges.' 

'Well,' said  he,  almost  savagely, 
'yoxi  mny  talk  of  the  fun  of  putting 
up  hurdles  'for  people  to  jump  in 
presence  of  all  that,  crowd;  but  I 
don't  see  it.  I  say  there  are  plenty 
of  hedges  and  ditches  and  streams 


to  be  jumped  without  adding  arti- 
ficial dangers  to  the  hunt.' 

'  Put  a  baby  could  jump  them.' 

'I  told  you  before  1  wasn't  a  l)aby, 
and  if  a  ba!>y  could  jum])  them 
what's  the  use  of  putting  them  up?' 

'  For  the  amusement  of  the  sjiec- 
tators.' 

'  What  you  call  amusement  I 
snp])ORe  means  a  lot  of  the  riders  — 
perhaps  fathers  of  families — turn- 
tiling  and  breaking  their  necks. 
That  may  l)e  amusement;  but  I 
shouldn't  tliink  it  was  for  the  chil- 
dren who  were  left  orphans.' 

Mr.  Felix  spoke  quite  bitterly, 
addressing  me  as  if  I  had  been  busy 
all  niglit  m  jDutting  up  these  frad 
lines  of  fences.  Indeed  his  wife  w;is 
shocked  by  this  exhibition  of  a  mor- 
bid dread,  and  rebuked  him  severely. 

'  When  the  Norman  princes  went 
out  hunting,'  she  observed,  'tliey 
not  only  risked  a  fall  from  their 
horse,  but  also  being  attacked  by  a 
hart  at  bay,  and  being  shot  by  an 
arrow  into  the  bargain.' 

'  Put  I'm  not  a  Norman  prince,' 
said  he,  sulkily.  '  The  Norman 
princes  were  a  lot  of  thieves,  and  i 
wish  they  had  stayed  at  home.' 

Now  tliis  was  a  cruel  blow  to 
Mrs.  Felix  ;  for  not  only  had  she  a 
strong  liking  for  all  sportsman- 
princes,  but  some  friend  of  hers  had 
further  assured  her  that  the  name 
of  Felix  was  an  old  and  honourable 
one,  and  that  an  application  to 
Heralds'  College  w^ould  certainly 
secure  to  her  husband  the  posses- 
sion of  a  noble  ancestry  and  a  neat 
crest — perhaps  with  the  motto,  'Fe- 
lix, qui  jiotnit.'  The  discussion, 
however,  Avas  lost  in  our  approach 
to  Mr.  Wheatear's  house— a  tall, 
peaked  building  of  red  brick  which 
stood  some  distance  down  a  by- 
road. At  the  point  where  this  road 
joined  the  main  road  stood  a  large 
inn  ;  and  here  were  congregated  such 
clusters  of  carriages  waiting  for 
sheds,  iior-es  waiting  for  stabling, 
servants  waiting  for  their  masters, 
and  idlers  of  all  descriptions  as  to 
wholly  block  up  the  ttSoronghfare. 
In  vain  Mr.  Felix  looked  out  for  his 
man.  Horses  there  were  of  every 
shape  and  colour,  and  grooms  of  all 
sizes  and  ages ;  but  there  was  no  trace 
of  the  right  gTOom  and  the  right 


BOG 


The  Last  Hun  iciih  tlic  StinjliouiKh. 


lutrpcs.  Finally  it  wiis  aiiMiif^'ccl 
tliiit  I  sliould  (irivc  Mrs.  Klix  to 
II  jrood  i)osition  on  tlio  hv-roail, 
wlit'iKT  slio  iiii^^lit  see  lu'i'  Inishaiul's 
lii'st  (1  isli  ftwiiy  nfter  tlie  iioiniils, 
while  111)  went  in  iiuust  of  his  stwil. 

Already  half  a  niilo  of  this  roa^l 
waK  ociMipied  l>y  carriages  placed 
iiear  to  tlie  liedgu,  and  overlookinji: 
the  coiirso  which  had  Iteen  chalke<^\ 
out  for  the  deer.  Tliicker  clusters, 
however,  were  around  those  posi- 
tions whence  a  pood  view  of  the 
jumping  could  he  obtained ;  for 
across  Mr.  Wheatear's  meadows 
stretched  two  long,  low  lines  of 
hurdles,  over  which  all  intending 
liuufsuien  were  expected  to  leap. 
I'resentiy  Mr.  Felix,  coming  up, 
lirouplit  with  him  his  grooni,  wlio 
was  now  ai)iioitited  to  look  after  the 
wagonette  horse,  lest  I\hs.  Felix 
should  be  frightened  during  the  in- 
terval in  which  her  husband  would 
ha  at  breakfast. 

As  wo  slowly  wrigglel  Ix^tween 
carriage-wheels  and  iiorses'  legs,  on 
our  way  back  to  Mr.  Wheatear's 
hou5-e,  it  was  plain  that  lilix  was 
very  nervous  and  not  a  little  angry. 

'  It's  all  very  well,'  said  he;  '  but 
I  don't  believe  in  gentlemen  being 
trotted  out  like  circus-riders  for  the 
Uncfit  of  a  lot  of  ploughmen.  I 
8ay  it  isn't  sport  at  all.  I  wonder 
they  haven't  two  or  three  clowns  to 
make  jitkes;  and  it's  a  i)ify  Iho 
meadows  aren't  laid  with  sawdust.' 

'  And  would  you  have  tlio,se  ladies 
drive  nil  this  way  for  nothing'? 
Surely  they  ought  to  eeo  a  little  bit 
of  the  run.' 

'  I  wish  the  ladies  would  stay  at 
lionie  anil  mind  their  own  business,' 
f-akl  he.  siiiippi^hly.  '  A  woman 
even  looks  Ik  tli  r  sitting  at  a  sewing- 
nru-hine,  niaking  ridiculous  cotton 
gowns,  tiian  sitting  in  an  op<n  car- 
riage and  gapiiig  like  ft  fool  at  what 
bhe  do«  sii't  unil<r>tand.' 

I  could  not  account  for  this  sud- 
den acerbity  on  the  jtart  of  the 
gentlest  of  men.  IJnt  cold  fowl  and 
champagne  sweeten  t!ie  tcni|.er  w(m- 
derfully.  As  we  wormeil  our  way 
through  the  crowd  that  I  iid  gathered 
in  Mr.  Wheatear's  front  garden,  and 
S']ue«ze<l  ourst^lves  into  places  at 
the  br<  ak fast-table,  1  oli.served  that 
a  milder  inlluence  began  to  dawn 


ujion  my  friend's  face.  Tic  was  par- 
ticularl.N  i)olite  in  passing  things  to 
the  master  of  the  hounds,  who  was 
within  arm's-length  of  liim.  Ho 
lituglied  merrily  at  ]\Ir.  ^\'heateal•'s 
j<>ke  about  the  sjiotlesR  t:carlet  of  his 
coat  — a  joke  that  had  done  service 
ill  welcoming  strangers  when  Mr. 
Wheatear  was  a  gawky  lad  who 
hung  about  the  doors  of  his  father's 
big  room  on  occasions  like  the  pre- 
sent. There  was  another  gentleman 
to  wliom  Mr.  Felix  w;us  i)rotusely 
civil,  handing  him  all  manner  of  un- 
necessary condiments  and  sujicrflu- 
ous  dishes,  which  the  stranger  was 
courteous  enough  to  pretend  to  use. 
He,  my  friend  afterwards,  with  an 
awe-struck   air,   informed    me,   was 

the  Hue  de ,  who  never  missed 

j\H\  Wheatear's  meet. 

As  the  champagne  flowed  more 
and  more  freely  Mr.  Felix  grew 
more  and  more  courageous.  Ho 
said  that,  after  all,  there  was  some- 
thing noble  in  hunting  a  stag — some- 
thing finer  than  in  prowling  about 
hedges  for  a  miserable  hare.  As  the 
gentlemen  rose  in  turn  to  jiropose  the 
health  of  the  master  of  the  hounds, 
the  giver  of  the  breakfast,  and  every- 
body and  ever\thing  ctmiiected  with 
the  hunt,  Mr.  Felix  applauded  the 
speeches  in  a  very  veliement  man- 
ner, and  informed  me  privately  that 
'if  it  wasn't  for  fear  of  the  short- 
liand-writer  who  was  talking  notes, 
he  would  like  to  propose  tlie  health 
of  Mr.  Wliiatear  a  second  tiujo  on 
behalf  of  tiie  strangers  present.' 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Felix,  in 
coiiijiany  with  several  others,  was 
rather  unsteady  in  his  movements 
in  going  out  of  doors;  but  in  tho 
universal  scrimmiigo  of  looking  for 
liorses  and  mounting,  this  may  have 
been  caused  by  (  xcitement. 

'  How  do  you  like  my  coat  ?'  ho 
said,  with  a  watery  smile.  '  Isn't  it 
a  good  sl)a<le';'  Oh,  there  are  our 
hor.'-es.     That's  my  new  horse,  tho 

white    one.      C come    liere. 

Charlie!' 

Charlie  was  a  white  animal,  with 
a  highly-curved  neck,  a  singular 
tail,  an<i  sleepy  eyes.  He  looked  as 
though  the  shafts  of  a  cart  would  Ih) 
no  unfamiliar  object  to  him. 

'What  do  you  think  I  gave  for 
himV  he  asked. 


Tlie  Last  Bun  with  the  Slaghounds. 


507 


'  Twenty-five  pounds.' 

'  That's  all  yon,  know  about  horses,' 
he  said,  contemptuously,  as  he 
struggled  into  the  saddle. 

At  length  the  deer-cart,  which 
had  slowly  come  along  tlie  road, 
was  driven  through  a  gap  in  tlie 
hedge  into  the  meadow  fronting 
AVheatear's  house ;  and  immediately 
thereafter  a  dense  stream  of  horse- 
men poured  tlirough  the  same 
passage.  The  latter  arranged  them- 
selves in  two  irregular  rows,  stretcli- 
ing  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
meadow,  and  waited  to  see  the  stag 
turned  out  of  that  cumbrous,  prison- 
van-iooking  vehicle.  We  heard  the 
heavy  gates  being  swung  open,  and 
presently  a  timid  little  light-grey 
creature  leaped  gently  out,  and, 
turning  completely  round,  first 
looked  quietly  into  the  cart,  and 
then  calmly  regarded  us. 

'  There  he  is !  there  he  is !'  shouted 
everybody. 

'  Where?  where?'  cried  Felix, 
gazing  wildly  around. 

'  Tliere,  in  front  of  you,'  I  said  to 
him. 

'  TItat's  a  donkey,'  said  he,  peer- 
ing with  half-shut  eyes, '  that  isn't  a 
stag.' 

'  It's  all  the  stag  you'll  get,  sir,' 
said  his  neighbour  on  the  other  side, 
aj^pareutly  offended  by  Felix's  con- 
temptuous obs'ervatious. 

'  Where  are  his  horns,  then  ?' 

The  man  turned  away  his  head. 
He  evidently  thought  that  a  person 
who  askefl  for  the  sawn-off  antlers  of 
a  stag  was  not  worthy  of  an  answer. 

Meanwhile  the  pretty  little  animal 
which  was  the  object  of  so  much 
attention  turned  his  head  away  from 
us,  and  took  a  peep  at  the  long  line 
of  carriages  and  people  on  the  road. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  other  side  of 
the  meadow,  which  was  bounded  by 
a  row  of  trees;  and  finally,  having 
made  up  his  mind  to  quit  this 
brilliant  company,  he  composedly 
trotted  away  westward.  Lightly 
and  gracefully  he  hopped  over  the 
first  hurdle,  with  a  fine  artistic  ab- 
sence of  effort,  and  continued  his 
course.  The  second  hurdle  was 
jjassed  in  the  same  manner,  and 
then  he  broke  into  a  little  canter. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  and  turned 
round. 


'  He's  waiting  to  give  the  dogs  a 
chance,'  said  one. 

'  He's  wondering  why  we  don't 
follow,'  said  another. 

The  crowd  roared  and  cheered, 
some  out  of  derision,  others  to  hasten 
him  on  his  course;  and  as  he  heard 
this  unmusical  bray  of  human  voices 
he  set  oflf  at  a  light  galloj),  and  with 
a  fine,  high  leap  cleared  a  rather 
broad  stream  which  crossed  his 
path.  We  could  now  but  catirh 
glimpses  of  his  grey  fur  shooting 
l)ast  avenues  among  the  distant 
trees,  appearing  for  a  moment  on 
high  ground,  and  then  dipping  into 
some  hollow,  until  he  seemed  to 
alter  his  line  of  route  and  go  away 
to  the  south.  At  this  moment  a 
large  number  of  renegades,  wishing 
to  shirk  the  hurdles  and  overtake 
the  hounds  by  a  cross-cut,  retired 
from  the  meadow  and  took  to  the 
main  road,  which  led  jiretty  much 
in  the  direcliou  the  stag  was  sup- 
posed to  have  taken. 

'Don't  you  think  we  should  go 
with  them  ?'  said  Felix  to  me,  very 
timidly. 

*  But  what  would  Mrs.  Felix  think 
of  you?'  I  said. 

'  True,'  he  replied,  rather  mourn- 
fully ;  '  I  had  forgotten  her.' 

Then  he  "burst  into  a  somewhat 
forced  laugh. 

'  What's  a  tumble,  after  all !'  he 
cried. 

'  Oh,  nothing.' 

'  Besides,  Charlie  is  said  to  be  a 
nice  easy  jumper — comes  down  with 
all  his  feet  at  once  on  the  other  side. 
I  say,  liaven't  these  ten  minutes  ex- 
pired yet  ?  I  don't  consider  it  proper 
to  give  the  deer  so  great  a  start ;  it  is 
cruelty  to  the  horses  to  put  such  a 
strain  upon  them.' 

The  ten  minutes  had  just  expired 
when  the  dogs  were  turned  into  the 
meadow.  Almot-t  immediately  they 
hit  off  the  scent,  and,  with  a  jojful 
cry,  were  across  the  field  and  c'am- 
bering  over  the  first  hurdle,  whither 
the  two  lines  of  horsemen  straight- 
way followed  them.  Felix  cast  one 
look  in  the  direction  of  his  wife  and 
children,  and,  with  his  teeth  set 
hard,  pressed  into  the  heart  of  the 
great,  rushing,  noisy  throng  that 
now  went  full  tilt  at  the  artificial 
fence.    Over  they  went,  one  here 


508 


The  Last  liiai  icllh  the  S'aijhauuds. 


and  tlioro  Rtrikinp;  hcnvily  on  tlio 
toj)  spar,  trto  or  lliroo  coiiiini^  li<:litly 
to  the  proiiiiii,  and  iilt«)ut  halt'  a 
dozen  uni!<ip>iii;^  tlie  jikas-int  cx- 
perknce  of  a  rfrn>-al,  to  the  no  small 
delight  of  the  crowd.  Anions  theso 
last  was  Mr  Felix,  whose  sleejiy- 
eyed  animal  Inul  inched  straight  at 
the  hnrdlts,  and,  wlieeling  ronnd, 
had  severely  bruised  his  riders  foot 
against  the  spars 

'At  it  atrain,  old  nn!'  slioutcl  a 
lot  of  little  boys,  with  that  ea<y 
scorn  incitlent  to  pedestrians  when 
a  horseman  gets  into  tronblo. 

Mr.  Felix,  clenehing  his  teeth 
still  harder,  (lid  goat  it  again,  riding 
fairly  at  the  hnnlKs;  then,  just  as 
his  horse  was  ab  )nt  to  swerve,  he 
wrenched  at  his  head  and  simply 
drove  the  luast  tliroiigh  the  sjais, 
while  he  himself  was  .^een  the  next 
moment  to  tie  jierched  nngraoefnlly 
on  the  neck  of  the  animal,  which 
now  stood  with  trembling  legs 
among  the  splintered  wood.  Mad- 
dened with  rage,  Felix  struggled 
backward  into  the  saddle,  and  cut 
into  his  horse  tiercely  with  spur  and 
whip.  Fcn'tiinately,  Mrs  Felix  was 
posted  near  the  second  flight  of 
hurdles,  and  there  still  remained  a 
chance  for  her  husband  to  distin- 
guish himself  liefore  her  eyes.  How 
ho  did  niiinnge  tiiis  second  leap  I 
had  Ti'it  an  ojiport unity  of  seeing; 
but  I  was  toM  afterwards  that,  to 
the  great  dc'ight  of  Mr.s.  Felix,  who 
nearly  wept  for  joy,  he  rose  well  and 
cleared  tlie  j'uup  gillantly  at  tl  e 
fir.>t  cfTort.  It  shnuld  be  a<lded, 
aho,  that  my  friend's  triumph  was 
enhanced  by  the  fact  tlmt  two  or 
three  horses,  after  repeated  refusals, 
were  withdrawn  altogether  from  the 
content  by  tl  eir  disgusted  riders. 

The  stag  ha\ing  taken  a  juxtty 
Btraight  eo>irse  over  tome  rather 
heavy  country  f-oon  thinned  the 
compnny  of  liorst men ;  and  for  a 
long  lime  Mr.  Felix  was  to  Ikj  si  en 
painfully  toiling  ovir  the  htiff  fielils 
with  ft  large  number  of  stragglers 
who  had  not  yet  given  up.  At  the 
cnd<»f  twinty  minutes  there  were  not 
above  sixty  out  of  the  original  two 
hundred  who  could  l>o  wiid  to  \m 
with  the  h'lunds  at  all;  and  a')out 
that  time  I  lost  sight  of  Mr.  Felix 
and  his  ixji.'^evcriug  comratles. 


r?y-and-by  it  became  evident  that 
the  stag  had  turned  his  hea<l  east- 
ward; and  '  I{y  Jove!'  cried  some 
one,  '  he  must  have  gone  straight 
through  Tonbridge!'  The  surmise 
turned  out  to  be  correct;  the  deer, 
fur  once,  taking  to  the  roid,  had 
gone  straight  through  a  dense  dou- 
ble line  of  carriages  and  nebulous 
hors(  men,  who,  having  tried  to  over- 
take the  liunt  by  this  near  cut,  had 
almost  tilled  tlie  main  thoroughfare 
of  the  town.  As  the  riders  wlio  had 
really  followed  the  hounds  now 
came  cantering  up,  covereil  with 
persjiiration  and  blowing  like  por- 
poises, the  good  villagers  clnertd 
them  on  their  way.  and  slouted 
with  derisive  laugliter  after  those 
who  unblnsliiugly  joined  them. 
Among  tli(i  latter  was  a  gentleman 
who  had  been  riuietly  (Irinking  a 
glass  of  ale  in  frontof  the' Bull ;'  and 
no  sooner  did  this  person  ]>erceive 
me  than  he  rode  up  to  my  side. 

'  You've  a  frieml  on  a  white  horse?' 
he  asked. 

'  Yes.' 

'  Who  sat  next  you  at  breakfast  ?' 

'Yes,'  I  replied,  with  some  alarm, 
flaring  to  htarof  Mr.  Felix's  sudden 
death. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  with  a  smile,  'he 
was  with  mo  a  few  ui  nutes  ago 
when  the  stag  came  up  the  street, 
and,  in  spite  of  all  1  could  do,  he 
started  off  in  jmrsuit.  lie  wouldn't 
wait  for  the  hounds  ;  ho  said  they 
would  overtake  him  in  plenty  of 
time.  Has  your  friend  been  out 
before?' 

'  Not  with  thestagliounds,'  I  said. 

'I  thought  so,'  he  added,  with  a 
peculiar  look,  'for  I  never  saw  a 
man  so  dcfcnnined  to  have  the 
chasing  of  the  deer  all  to  himself. 
He  seems  to  consider  hounds  u  nui- 
sance.' 

Mr.  Felix,  however,  was  soon  for- 
gotten in  the  universal  clamour  and 
hurry.  The  day  was  declai<d,  with 
many  an  unnecessary  ejuciilaticn, 
to  be  the  finest  of  the  season,  for  the 
deer  had  never  taken  to  the  road 
(xcept  during  his  brief  visit  to  Ton- 
briige,  and  the  scent  was  gooil.  and 
the  luuinds  ran  famously,  and  the 
fielil  wiis  a_ain  speidily  tliimie<l,  so 
as  to  avoid  the  certainty  of  luing 
ridden  over,  and  every  ixjdy   (who 


The  Lnd  Run  icilh  the  Staghounds. 


509 


conld  keep  np  with  the  pao^)  ^\'as 
jubilant  with  a  strange  and  tingling 
joy.  The  course  was  s-ingularly 
stiaij^ht,  Itading  almost  in  a  direct 
line  over  garden-land  and  meadow, 
down  into  moi.st,  deep  glades  and 
Tip  the  sides  of  tr^  ing  hills,  through 
j^ark,  and  MOod,  and  field  and  fal- 
](;w,  until  we  had  returned  to  our 
starting-point,  passed  it,  and  were 
a«ay  far  to  the  north.  At  length 
the  hounds,  running  by  the  side  of 
a  lioupe,  led  us  down  a  valley,  to 
get  into  which  we  had  to  ride  along 
a  narrow  by-path.  As  we  rounded 
the  corner  we  saw  that  the  main 
road  led  up  and  over  the  tall  hill  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hollow;  and 
on  this  road,  a  considerable  distance 
ahead  of  the  hounds,  stood  a  man 
in  a  scarlet  coat.  He  set  up  a  joy- 
ful halloo  upon  seeing  ns,  and, 
breaking  through  the  hedge,  pro- 
ceeded to  come  down  the  steep  in- 
cline at  a  pace  dangerous  for  even 
an  expeiicnced  ritler. 

'  Why,  that's  your  friend,'  said 
the  man  who  had  formerly  spoken 
to  me ;  '  he  is  in  luck's  way  to-day.' 

The  hounds  had  just  time  to  pass 
when  Felix  arrived  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hollow ;  and,  as  we  came  up,  it 
was  evident  that  this  down-hill  pace 
had  been  none  of  his  making.  His 
white  hort;e  had,  on  hearing  the 
hounds,  taken  him  away  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  now  went  crash  into  a 
small  hedge  which  the  others  were 
about  to  jump.  The  brute  stuck 
there ;  but  Felix,  scarcely  a  second 
after^vards,  found  himself  lying  on 
the  bank  of  a  ditch  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge,  his  hat  smashed, 
his  whip  gone,  and  scarcely  power 
left  within  him  to  open  his  eyes. 

'  Give  mo  some  sherry,'  he  gasped, 
as  I  got  down ;  '  I'm  afraid  this  is 
my  last  jump.' 

His  face  was  deadly  pale,  and 
from  the  utterly  helpless  way  in 
which  he  lay  extended  on  the  car- 
peting of  matted  primroses,  wild 
hyacinths,  and  dandelions,  I  fancied 
that  he  had  really  injured  himself 
internally. 

'  Tell  ray  wife  she's  provided  for,' 
he  moaned,  after  having  gulped 
down  some  sherry. 

*  "\Yliy,  get  up  1'  I  said  to  him ; 
'  you're  not  hurt,  are  you  ?' 


'  You'll  look  after  my  children ;  I 
know  you  will/  he  said,  faintly, 
shutting  his  eyes;  'and  don't  let 
Jack  go  out  on  the  ]:>ony  any  more.' 

*  Where  are  you  hurt?' 

'All  over,'  he  said,  in  a  sort  of 
ghastly  whisper. 

In  order  to  inspire  him  with  some 
sort  of  courage,  I  insisted  that  he 
could  not  be  hurt,  having  fallen 
on  this  soft  and  opportune  bank ; 
and  fiually  helped  or  dragged  him 
to  his  feet  despite  his  repeated 
moans.  I  persuaded  him  to  use  his 
limbs  one  by  one,  and  made  him 
confess  that  no  bones  were  broken. 

'  But  what  are  bones  ?'  he  said, 
plaintively ;  '  it  isn't  the  breakage 
of  bones  that  kills  men,  but  injury 
to  the  lungs,  or  heart,  or  liver,  or 
sometln'ng.  And  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
shaken  to  pieces  inside.' 

'  Mr.  Felix,'  said  I,  '  you  know 
how  much  I  esteem  you.  At  the 
same  time  I  can't  wait  any  longer, 
and  cut  off  my  chance  of  ever  seeing 
the  hounds  again.  If  you  get  on 
your  hor.se — he  waits  for  you  quietly 
enough— you  will  find  yourself  all 
right,  and  you  may  yet  distinguish 
yourself.' 

'  No,'  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
sadly  ;  '  I  have  had  enough  for  to- 
day. I  shall  have  to  ride  home  now  ; 
but  if  I  find  myself  growing  weak, 
I  shall  call  at  Graham's  and  stay 
there  for  the  night.' 

He  mounted  his  horse  in  a  melan- 
choly manner',  and  very  slowly  and 
very  cai-etully  walked  the  animal  up 
the  hill  down  which  he  had  come  so 
rapidly.  As  he  disappeared  round 
the  corner  of  the  road,  he  waved  his 
fingers  with  a  frail  hilarity,  and  I 
saw  him  no  more. 

But  as  it  is  the  fortune  of  Mr. 
Felix  with  which  wo  are  chiefly 
concerned,  it  may  be  better  to 
follow  him  and  look  at  the  stag- 
hunt  from  his  point  of  view.  The 
house  in  which  he  proposed,  in  case 
of  feeling  very  ill,  to  pass  the  night, 
was  about  a  dozen  miles  from  the 
scene  of  his  mishap ;  and  by  the 
tin  e  he  had  reached  it  the  long 
solitary  ride  had  greatly  depressed 
his  spirits.  He  resolved,  at  least, 
to  enter  and  rest  himself,  leaving 
the  question  of  his  night's  lodging 
for   further  consideration.     Fortu- 


610 


TJ>e  ImsI  Tli>u  irtlh  the  SlnghoundB. 


imffly  >rr.  Graham  was  nt  lioino; 
and  in  his  fritnd'rt  dining  room  Mr. 
Ftlix,  witli  tlio  help  of  a  little  wino, 
l)fpau  to  fi-el  hiiusflf  again.  Dn.sk 
was  coining  on;  and  our  Ikmo  he- 
guilcd  the  hwssitiidoof  the  atteruonn 
by  a  liistory  of  his  morning's  adven- 
ture. 

Siiildcnly  a  terrific  cra.'-h  was 
heard  outside ;  a  succession  of 
siirdl  srreaiiis  followed;  and  tho 
next  moment  lliere  was  a  imtterin<; 
(if  hoofs  across  tho  lawn,  and  tlie 
iioise  of  a  fullin.i,'  tiay  in  Mr.  Gra- 
ham's hall.  The  whole  party  started 
up  and  rnslied  to  the  window,  where 
they  Inlield  an  awful. scene  of  devas- 
tdtiou.  The  glass  frame-work  of  a 
fine  conservatory  was  smashed  to 
pieces,  and  lay  in  splinters  and 
fragments  upm  tie  path,  while 
tniiling  stems  of  vinos,  potted  gera- 
niums and  azaleas,  and  innnnierahlo 
green-honse  i)!ants  lay  heaped  to- 
get.lier  amid  shreds  of  taitlu  nwarc. 
Mrs.  (iraliam  was  the  first  to  dart  to 
the  door;  and  she  liad  scarcely  done 
so  when,  with  a  loud  shriek,  slio 
tiimhled  hack  into  tlie  room. 

'  Oh,  George  !' she  cried,  'there's 
— there's  some  crcitiiirr  in  the  hall !' 

George,  rushing  to  the  iloor,  and 
expecting  to  meet  a  visi.)n  of  .some 
iiorrihie  Iteing  with  eyes  of  fire  and 
cloven  hoofs,  found  himself  con- 
fronted hy  the  very  stag  whicii 
Mr.  Felix  had  vainly  attempted  to 
follow;  while  at  the  .same  moment 
there  camo  tho  cry  of  the  hounds 
which  were  now  coursing  along  the 
garden-path.  Mr.  Graham's  hail 
would  soon  have  hicomc  a  slaughter- 
house, had  not  the  gardener,  alarmed 
hy  the  crftsli  of  the  conservatory, 
come  running  forward  tVom  the  out- 
side, ami  at  once  coiuprelionding  the 
Bitiuition,  darted  to  the  hall-door 
find  shut  in  fu-  deer.  But  what  to 
do  with  the  frightened  animal  wliicli 
wn.s  so  encaged  '.'  Had  it  Ken  a 
famished  tiger  at  hay,  tlie  piople 
in  the  house  could  not  liave  heen 
more  alarme<l ;  and  for  a  time  Mr. 
Felix  and  his  friends  contented 
themselves  hy  pei  ping  round  thcs 
corner  of  the  dniwing-ronm  donr  at 
the  unfortunate  l><a>t,  which  stood 
pmting  and  trend)ling  hy  the  side 
of  the  umhrella  stjind.  In  time, 
however,  the  gardener  came  to  the 


rescue,  ami,  with  tho  assistance  of  a 
groom,  threw  a  rope  over  the  stag's 
heivl  ami  secured  liim. 

Such  was  the  position  of  ntTaira 
when  I  again  camo  in  view  of  Mr. 
Felix,  who  now  passtd  outside  to 
meet  tho  memhersof  tho  hunt.  He 
had  taken  caro  to  put  on  his  hat; 
and  (louhtless  most  of  us  fancied 
him  a  terrihle  fellow  to  have  beaten 
the  very  hounds  in  the  run. 

'All  right,  gentlemen,'  he  said, 
blandly,  '  he's  safe  and  sound,  and 
ready  for  another  day  as  soon  as 
you  want  him.' 

Hut  ^Ir.  (iraham,  coming  forward, 
and  discovering  who  was  the  master 
of  the  hounds,  began  to  -make  a 
grievous  comi)laint about  the  demo- 
lition of  his  cimservahu-y.  lie  Ix)- 
camo  quite  angry.  He  vowed  that 
no  money  could  recomjK'nso  him  for 
the  loss  of  rare  i)lants  he  hail  sus- 
tained ;  and  that,  for  the  mere  break- 
age of  glass  and  so  tnrth,  five  guineas 
were  tlio  leust  he  wouhl  take 

'  And  unless  I  get  the  five  guineas,' 
said  he,  '  you  don't  get  your  stag  ; 
that's  all.' 

Now  the  master  did  not  h  i]>ppn 
to  have  any  money  at  all  wit!i  hun  ; 
and  it  was  with  the  greatt^st  diffi- 
culty that  ho  was  enabled  to  gatiier 
Ity  subscription  the  sum  of  4/.  lo.'-'. 

'  I  don't  believe  tho  whole  place 
is  worth  five  pounds,'  saiil  the 
ma.ster,  with  a  great  oath;  'but 
here,  sir,  as  you  bring  your  shop 
with  yf)U  from  Limdon  down  into 
tho  country,  FU  give  you  4/.  lo.v. 
for  tho  article,  and  if  you're  not 
satisfied ' 

'Then  I  shall  bo  respontiI)lo  for 
tho  rest,'  observed  ]\Ir.  Felix,  with  a 
grand  air. 

As  wo  rode  off  to  tho  nearest  iim 
to  order  some  dinner,  Mr.  Felix 
camo  to  mo,  and  said,  coaxingly — 

'  You'll  come  home  with  mo  and 
stay  ov(!r  the  night  at  our  jilace? 
And,  you  know,  you  needn't  say 
anything  to  Mrs.  Felix  about  my 
being  in  tho  house  when  the  deer 
was  taken.  Let  her  suppo.so  I  nxlo 
all  the  way  with  the  lioumls— she 
will  like  it,  1  know.  Women  do 
feel  gratified  by  such  trifles;  and 
what's  the  harm  of  a  little  l>it  of 
iimocent  deception  ?' 

W.  B. 


pf 


S5^====^rr 


"■>i 


M^ 


l<r.i«n  l«\    1.  I,.  S<<«i.iiil«f. 


SMOTHERED    IN    HOSES. 


[Scr  iIk'  roeiii. 


/y. 


^'j 


fm^ 


4     ' 

a-.  .■^  1 


611 


SMOTHERED  IN  EOSES. 

YES ;  cliarity,  T  know,  may  hide 
A  multitude  of  sins ; 
But  there's  a  piovcrb  to  decide 

Where  charity  begins. 
Should  ihihc  in  future  contemplate 

A  journey  any  wliere, 
'Twiil  be  a  ball -a  play — a  fete — 
And  not  a  Fancy  Fair. 

The  girls  are  all  so  very  bold — 

'J  he  mt  n  so  very  rash — 
So  many  trifles  miist  be  sold, 

And  all  for  ready  casli. 
You'll  find,  when  once  you  come  to  count 

The  guineas  here  and  there, 
It  costs  a  pretty  large  amount 

To  see  a  Fancy  Fair. 

Three-quarters  of  the  things  they  sell 

Are  not  a  bit  of  good— 
(One  can't  refuse,  though,  very  well, 

And  wouldn't,  if  one  could). 
They  have  such  voices  and  such  curls, 

And  such  a  winning  air — 
About  a  dozen  pretty  girls 

May  work  a  Fancy  Fair. 

They  hunt  a  fellow  round  and  round. 
They  track  him  ujj  and  d(jwn  ; 

They  sell  him  portraits  at  a  pound, 
And  roses  at  a  crown ; 

Scent,  purses,  pocket-books,  and  rings- 
Pomatum  for  the  hair — 

And  fifty  other  little  things 
That  stock  a  Fancy  Fair. 

I'm  not  particirlarly  shy, 

As  ever\bo  ly  knows, — 
And  yet  I  am  obliged  to  buy 

Whatever  they  propose. 
I've  been  so  often  overcome, 

That  now  1  only  dare 
To  take  a  very  modest  sum 

To  any  Fancy  Fair. 

They  little  know,  or  little  feel 

What  injuries  they  do: 
A  wound  vipon  the  purse  may  heal, 

But  hearts  are  wouridcd  too. 
This  damage  done  by  lips  and  eyes 

Is  more  than  I  can  bear ; 
So,  charity,  take  any  guise 

Except  a  Fancy  Fair.  H.  S.  Leigh. 


512 


WHAT'S  IN  THE  PAPERS  ? 
(Tllcstkated  by  the  late  C.  II.  Bennett.) 


TI^^I^I-'Tj,  fis  fill"  f^s  mutters  of  in- 
TT  tcnsu  iKTsoiml  iiitt-rost  arc  con- 
cerned, it  ontiri;ly  (h|ieii  is  upon  vour 
own  ))ecnliar  lio!>l)v ;  but,  if  you 
are  niorcl y  anxious  to  loiirii  tlio  con- 
tents of  '  The  Times,'  '  Daily  Tclo- 
prapli,'  'Standard,'  or  '  ]\Iornins 
Star,'  as  a  matter  of  statistics  in 
journalism.  T  can  sum  tliem  up  and 
nive  you  tlie  result  in  a  tuinUling. 
Leading  articles,  r-  ])  )rts,  critiipies; 
intelligence  on  military,  iiavitl.  sport- 
ing, an  I  mercantile  iiiii'teis;  foreign 
correspondence,  advcrtiseiueiits,  and 
jhThfinr/.  If  you  cm  find  nothing 
whatever  to  amuse  you  in  any  of 
these  depaitments,  you  miy  just  as 
well  give  up  the  study  of  new.s- 
papers  for  ever,  and  stick  to  the 
perusal  of  fiction  for  the  remainder 
of  your  days.  lain  fully  convinced, 
for  my  own  ])art,  that  a  hclief  in 
reality  is  fatal  to  the  exiTcise  of  the 
fancy:  I  only  put  my  faith  n  things 
that  cannot  by  any  pos.'-iliility  l)e 
proved,  and  I  am  con.seqnently 
looked  uiK)n  (by  peiple  who  don't 
know  any  l>etter)  as  an  ethereal 
dreamer— a  creature  (if  wild  iMia;_'in- 
ings— abeingof  infinite  aspirations; 
as  anything,  in  short,  rather  than  a 
practical  and  well-conducted  young 
ixirson.  It  is  not,  however,  the 
wish  of  most  people  to  imitate 
Lord  Byron,  and  wear  an  <  norinous 
amount  of  back  hair.  The  pre-ent 
age  belioves  in  its  own  doings  c:)n- 
siderably,  and  likes  to  see  how  it 
gets  along  ;  hence  the  enormous  de- 
mand for  newspapers. 

I  always  mak<!  a  point  of  reading 
my  own  i)articulnr  organ  of  opim'on 
in  l»ed ;  and,  having  perused  it 
through  and  through  very  Ciirefully, 
I  throw  it  down  an<i  give  niy.sdf  up 
to  a  luxurious  criticism  on  all  that 
it  contains.  Facts  are  not  much  in 
my  line,  as  I  have  air.  ady  stated; 
but  Socif'ty  demands  liiat  one  shouUl 
know  sometliiug  of  what  goes  on 
in  the  worM  ;  ajul  I  desire  to 
keep  well  with  Society.  To-night, 
ptrhaps  — during  the  intirv.ds  of 
the  ma/y  waiiz  or  the  maddening 
galop— I  bhall  fmd  myself  in  want 


of  a  subject  on  whicdi  to  breathe 
soft  not!)ings  to  my  cldightfnl 
partner.  I  shall  prob.ihly  dine  this 
evening,  in  th'i  most  intellectual 
company,  and  I  wisli  to  be  jmrticu- 
larly  terse  and  ep'grauanatic  on 
current  events.  The  newsjiajxr 
obviously  sujiplies  me  with  mate- 
rials for  the  exhibilion  of  my  con- 
versational ac{]uirenieMts;  and  I  ani 
enablid,  by  perusing  it  in  bed,  fully 
to  digest  its  varied  contents.  The 
bcMly's  repose  is  propitious  to  the 
mind's  exertion  ;  and  1  have  long  I 
ago  discovered  that  my  brain  is  .Ji 
never  so  active  .as  when  reclining 
on  my  downy  pillow.  Try  to  rernl 
a  pajier  during  lireakfast,  in  the 
train,  or  on  tlie  omninus:  you  can- 
not concentrate  your  intellect  upon 
the  task.  It  is  merely  one  duty 
amongst  the  many  tliat  you  have  to 
perform  during  tho  dfiy.  Peruse 
it  in  bed,  and  it  liecomes  your  sole 
occupation — the  only  interval  lie- 
tween  rest  and  labour, — the  neutral 
ground  that  .separates  dreaming 
from  doing.  Never  tell  me  that  you 
cannot  afford  the  time  for  it.  Let 
tho  servant  wake;  you  half  an  hour 
before  you  mean  to  rise. 

The  readers  of  a  newspaper  are 
as  various  in  th'ir  choice  of  topics  as 
the  topics  themselves.  Nothing  ia 
too  heavy  for  some  of  them,  and 
nothing  too  light  for  others.  There 
are  jxioplo  in  this  world.  I  believe, 
who  tidic  a  fervid  interest  in  the 
precise  time  of  high  water  at  Lon- 
don Bridge;  yet  htgh  water  and 
low  are  matters  of  profound  indif- 
ference to  most  of  us.  The  general 
reader  cares  very  liltUf  about  ships 
that  have  arrived  and  ships  that 
have  sailed ;  y(^t  the  departure  o 
every  ship  makes  a  good  many 
people  very  anxious  and  the  arrival 
of  every  shi])  makes  a  goo  1  many 
peojjle  very  happy.  The  advertisc- 
UKUts  that  begin  with  '  WaTited ' 
havo  never  crea'ed  much  interest  in 
the  bosom  of  your  hundile  .s(!rvant ; 
yet  they  are  devoured  with  con- 
siderable eagernes.siby  jxior  folkH 
out  of  employment.  '  It  is  not  at  all 


Draum  by  the  lute  C.  B.  Lcnnett. 

VOL.  aI.— NO.  LXVI. 


WHAT'S  IN  THE  PAPERS? 


514 


TF?i  iI'k  in  the  Paj'trs  ? 


a  common  tliin^:;  for  the  rcalor  of  a 
nowspapi'i"  to  oct'Upy  the  centre  of 
iinlitfercncc  ou  -  r,  ry  subject  con- 
tained in  it 

We  all  profess  to  entertain  strong 
opinions  on  the  qiustion  of  politics 
uowa-tlays ;  ami  tlio-e  who  cultivate 
the  most  moderate  principles  ap- 
pear to  bo  the  most  outrageous  in 
their  talk.  I  always  fig'it  extremely 
shy  of  a  man  who  tells  me  that  he 
is  a  Lil)Lnil-Coiis('rvative,  because 
I  feel  certain  that  he  iiit<.'nds  to 
pet  upon  his  hind  logs  and  argue, 
lie  reiniiitis  me  of  Mr.  Facing-both- 
ways,  in  the  '  I'ilgrim's  Progress.'  I 
like  a  stanch  Conservative,  and  I 
love  an  enthu.Ma.stic  Liberal.  Only 
let  a  man  be  black  or  white ;  this 
whitey-brown  scho  )1  of  politics  is 
more  than  I  can  l>ear.  The  nura- 
l)er  of  respectable  householders  in 
London  who  lirmly  believe  that 
the  British  Empire  would  go  to 
smithereens  unless  they  had  fre- 
quent opportunities  of  stating  their 
private  impressions  respecting  its 
government  must  be  something  ab- 
solutely enormous.  They  deliver 
themselves  of  their  jiet  theories  on 
all  possible  occasions,  and  very 
often  learn  a  consideral)lo  portion  of 
the  previous  night's  Parliamentary 
deliates  by  heart.  The  conduct  of 
Lord  Stanley  in  the  '  Tornado'  busi- 
ness, and  the  l)ehaviour  of  Mr.  Wal- 
pole  respecting  the  demonstratif)n 
in  Hyde  Park,  must  have  set  folks 
di.sputiiigin  very  nearly  every  cofTee- 
room  and  eating-house  in  town. 
The  newspaper,  student  who  reads 
politics  for  their  own  sake,  gene- 
rally contrives  to  make  himself 
thoroughly  ma-^ter  of  his  facts  Ilis 
de<luctions,  I  need  scarcely  tell  you, 
are  occasionally  erroneous;  but  the 
opponent  who  ra<;hly  attempts  to 
confute  his  logic  is  generally  suffer- 
ing from  a  loi>se  screw  in  his  own 
statements.  When  one  party  in  an 
argument  can  only  riui'inh,  r,  and  the 
other  can  only  r'uson,  aconsi  lerable 
amount  of  precious  time  is  likely  to 
lie  lost  in  talk. 

The  gentleman  who  pays  the  Fine 
Alts  the  graceful  coniplinient  of 
cultivating  about  a  couple  of  them 
to  a  modest  extent,  gives  his  first 
glance  to  the  criti<|ne.s.  The  Pioyal 
Aciulemy,  and  the  French  and 
Flemish   Exhibition  are  absorbing 


topics  for  him  ;  he  is  quite  capable 
of  fortning  his  own  opinion  on  jiic- 
tures,  but  ho  is  nevertheless  rather 
anxious  to  discover  what  the  verdict 
of  a  professional  critic  may  happen 
to  Ih).  Jfe  likes  to  tind  himself  sup- 
ported by  authority,  and  so  ho 
studies  the  daily  papers  as  well  as 
the  weekly  reviews.  Ho  welcomes 
with  joy  the  latest  news  regarding 
operas  and  concerts.  The  notices 
of  new  plays  have  a  singular  fa.^ci- 
nation  for  him,  whether  he  l>elieve3 
or  not  in  the  decline  of  the  drama. 
It  gives  him  huge  gratification  to 
be  told  that  Mi.ss  T.  performed  with 
her  usual  tenderness  and  grace  in 
tho  three-act  comedy  produced 
somewhere  last  night,  or  that  Miss 
F.  was  tho  life  and  soul  of  Mr. 
Somebody's  latest  burlesque.  He  is 
perhaps  ac([uainted  personally  with 
a  popular  actor — in  which  case  he 
possesses  a  strong  qualification  for 
liecoming  a  consummate  bore,  both 
amongst  those  who  are  accpiaint^'d 
with  srvrnl  popular  actors,  and 
amongst  those  who  are  acquainted 
with  none  at  all.  Whenever  his 
friend  happens  to  Ix)  spoken  well  of 
in  the  papers  he  announces  the  fact 
with  immense  trium[)h  in  every 
circle  that  he  pervades,  to  the  un- 
bounded joy  of  his  listeners.  He 
succeeds  now  and  then  in  picking 
up  very  small  pieces  of  green-room 
gossip.  A  certain  actress  is  going 
to  Ikj  married;  or  a  certain  actor 
appears  l>efore  the  public  under  an 
assumed  name  (his  j)roper  one  being 
Smith  or  Jone.s,  prol)at)ly);  and 
these  infinitesimal  scandals  are 
whi.spered  about  with  every  demon- 
stration of  profound  sagacity,  \\\\\\\ 
their  garrulous  chronicler  has  gra- 
dually como  to  1)0  looked  upon  by 
tho  weak-minded  as  an  oracle  in 
dramatic  alTairs.  His  interest  in  the 
papers  is  greatly  heightened  by  his 
knowledge  of  the  names  of  tho 
critics.  If  you  are  ever  unlucky 
enough  to  go  to  tho  theatre  in  his 
company  on  the  first  night  of  a  new 
piece;,  Ik;  will  point  you  out  '  Tho 
Times,' '  Telegraph,'  and '  Star,'  very 
knowingly. 

The  mercantile  gentleman  turns 
at  once  to  the  money  article  of  his 
favourite  organ.  He  is  an  eminently 
practical  man,  sir,  and  has  Icon 
occupied  during  several  years  of  hifl 


Whafs  in  the  Papers  f 


51o 


life  in  trying  to  si-jgII  some  pretty 
word  out  of  the  tliree  letters  L,  S, 
and  D.  He  reads  his  paper  in  an 
omnibus  or  a  railway  carriage  (first 
class)  on  his  way  to  his  place  of 
business.  The  E.G.  postal  district 
is  to  him  a  garden  in  which  he 
gathers  money  all  the  day,  like  a 
busy  bee.  Politics  interest  him  in- 
asmuch as  they  influence  the  funds. 
He  is  at  present  a  Conservative,  if 
anything  :  in  the  days  of  his  clerk- 
ship, a  long  time  ago,  his  tendency 
was  towards  the  most  pronounced 
Eadicalism.  On  seventy  or  eighty 
pounds  per  annum,  one  must  be  a 
Eadical,  you  see ;  Conservative  prin- 
ciples cannot  be  nourished  at  the 
price.  Except  the  City  intelligence, 
there  is  very  little  in  the  paper  to 
amuse  our  commercial  friend  ;  but 
he  glances  at  the  police  reports 
when  he  gets  to  his  chop-house,  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  because  read- 
ing is  favourable  to  the  process  of 
digestion.  He  likes  to  hear  aboiit 
fraudulent  bankrupts;  and  a  go  )d 
big  forgery  is  meat  and  drink  to 
him  for  several  days. 

To  the  lounger,  |5;/r  et  simple,  the 
most  seductive  portion  of  a  daily 
paper  is  its  2^adding.  This  is  the 
technical  word  made  use  of  to 
describe  those  little  scraps  of  general 
information,  and  odds  and  ends 
which  are  introduced  at  the  foot  of 
a  column  in  order  to  fill  it  up. 
They  are  almost  endless  in  their 
variety ;  and  some  such  headings 
as  the  following  may  generally  be 
looked  for  amongst  them  : — 

Singular  Discovery  of  Euman 
Bemains  in  a  Chalk  Fit. 

Tlie  Bombay  Mails. 

Daring  Bobbery  in  the  South  of 
France. 

Progress  of  the  Metropolitan  Im- 
provements, 

Fatal  Termination  to  a  Practical 
Johe. 

Remarkable  Atmospheric  Pheno- 
menon in  Devonshire. 


These  entertaining  morsels  very 
often  go  the  round  of  the  Ijondon 
papers,  and  end  l)y  going  out  starring 
in  the  provinces.  Th(iy  are  exceed- 
ingly useful  as  topics  for  small- 
talk;  and  I  should  advise  all  diners- 
out  who  feel  their  intellects  insuf- 
ficient for  grappling  with  questions 
of  importance  to  devote  a  con- 
siderable quan'ity  of  their  spare 
time  to  the  study  of  padding.  I'lenty 
of  amusement  can  also  be  obtained 
from  the  perusal  of  those  mysterious 
advertisements  which  entreat  some- 
body to  return  to  his  disconsolate 
wife,  or  treat  of  'an  elderly  man 
who  left  his  home  last  week  in 
a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  a 
wide-awake  hat,  and  a  pair  of  patent- 
leather  boots  He  was  last  seen  at 
the  British  Museum,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  be  insane  '  It  is  interest- 
ing, too,  to  know  that  '  X  received 
the  5?.,  and  will  be  happy  to  hear 
from  Z  again ;'  or  thit  some  in- 
curable maniac  has  been  sending 
money  to  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  on  account  of  unpaid 
income-tax.  The  cynic  will  find 
food  for  conversation  in  the  an- 
nouncement headed,  'Wanted  a 
Governess.'  The  immense  prices 
given  for  education  just  now  are 
amongst  the  most  encouraging  signs 
of  the  times. 

But  it  is  quite  impossible  to  ex- 
Jiaust  the  types  of  {leople  who  take 
delight  in  the  newspaper  —  from 
the  Minister  of  the  Cr  )wn  who  is 
anxious  to  see  whether  his  oration 
of  last  night  in  Parliament  is  cor- 
rectly reported,  to  the  sympathetic 
burglar  who  desires  to  know  how 
his  bosom  friend  conducted  himself 
yesterday  before  the  Bow  Street 
'  beak.'  f  have  only  tried  to  sketch 
three  or  four  of  the  most  earnest 
readers,  and  I  must  leave  you  to 
exercise  your  own  powers  of  obser- 
vation upon  the  rest. 

H.  S.  L. 


.'>-=^ 


3  L   3 


616 


EXPERIENCES  ON  DARTMOOR. 


'"I ''HE  other  day  I  saw  in  u  iiia- 
1  puzino  tlio  narrative  of  a  clii- 
valroiis  miitli'iiniii  wlio,  ono  liuo 
afttTUtton,  walliol  straitjlit  across 
Dartmoor,  and  forthwitli  worked 
lip  his  ativrntiirt's  into  an  articlo  of 
tittecn  pairt  s.  I  W118  not  surprit:ed 
tolitartliat  narrative  rather  severely 
criticized,  when  I  liave  Ixien  out  on 
tlie  moor;  and  I  am  hound  to  say 
that  Dartmoor  can  hardly  be  ap- 
preciated or  understood  by  a  single 
peietfiioation.  I  have  been  there 
on  various  occasions,  and,  so  far  as 
We  may  venture  to  f^ptak  of  future 
plans,  I  intend  to  go  on  various 
oc<?asions  more.  I  will  venture  to 
give  some  of  my  expcriuuces,  so  far 
as  they  have  gone,  ]uvmising  that, 
whatever  they  may  l)e  worth,  they 
are  bona  fide,  and  acquired  with 
Some  little  cost  and  care,  and  I  will 
take  them  in  their  order, 

A  large  jiroportiou  of  my  readers 
must  have  travelled  upon  the  South 
Devon  Rudway.  Hardly  any  line  of 
rail  presents  the  traveller  with  scenes 
of  such  variety  and  beauty.  When 
you  have  lef'  Kxminster  behind  you 
»he  estuary  lOxe  broadens  into  a 
wide  arm  of  the  sea  on  ttie  left,  and 
on  the  ii,L:ht  you  liave  Powderlnm 
Ca>tle  and  the  l)roiid  park  of  the 
Earl  of  Devon.  A  little  further  on, 
the  line  directly  skirts  the  shore. 
J^ooking  out  of  the  window  on  the 
left,  you  mif:ht  fancy  yourself  on 
the  railway  to  Venice,  or  on  the 
rai  I  way  across  Mi  )rect  )ml  Hi  Bay.  You 
])res«.'ntly  come  to  a  tine  house,  to 
which  a  curious  story  Itelongs. 
There  w^as  a  geiitKnian  who,  irri- 
ta'ed  l>eyond  expression  by  railway 
exi>ansion,  sought  out  a  secluded 
glade  in  Iievonshire  near  the  pretty 
little  villiige  of  iJuwlish.  iJul  thi.s 
reiiiorseks-i  lino  cut  straight  be- 
tween his  windnrts  and  the  seJi,  and 
Dawlish  expanded  into  a  fashion- 
able watering-p'aee  ;  and  the  tragic 
story,  firmly  l>eliev(!.l  in  the  neigli- 
Ixjurhood,  is,  that  the  gentleman 
died  of  a  broken  heart.  You  take 
have  of  the  sci  Injfore  jou  arrive 
at  Newton  Junction,  but  l)etween 
Newton  and  ri.vtimuth  you  pa-ss 
tliiough  some  very  prvtty  country. 


You  will  not  fail  to  be  particularly 
impressed  by  the  viaduct  of  perilous 
altitude  which  spans  the  deej)  glen 
of  lvyl)ridge.  As  I  surveyed  tlie 
mju^s  of  gi-ceii  foliage  below,  with 
the  shady  walks  cut  between,  and 
saw  the  silvery  gleam  of  the  stream 
rushing  downwards  to  the  mill,  I 
thouglit  t'lat  the  scene  fully  realized 
all  that  I  had  heard  of  Devonian 
beauty,  and  I  registered  an  inten- 
tion of  making  it  a  visit  one  of  these 
days.  Here  I  was  told  the  lino 
hal  really  reached  Dartmoor,  and 
it  skirted,  like  a  terrace,  at  a  con- 
siderable elevation,  the  high  moor- 
land region.  The  wild,  l>arren  moor 
is  everywhere  gird  ltd  by  a  region 
of  peculiar  beauty,  auil  the  deep, 
romanti(!  valley,  spanned  by  the 
viaduct,  is  one  of  its  on  (posts,  and 
may  be  claimed  as  belonging  to  tho 
moor  itself. 

I  sulL-equently  made  a  visit  to 
Ivybridgo  from  Plymouth,  which 
is  chiefly  memorable  to  me  as  form- 
ing the  bvgiiming  of  my  experiences 
on  Dartmo;)r.  The  glen  was  eveiy 
whit  as  beautiful  on  a  morethoron^^'h 
a''<|naintaiice  as  when  I  c<mtem- 
plate<l  it  from  tho  railway.  It  is 
curious  to  contemplate  tho  railway 
from  tho  glen,  which  .seems  sii.s- 
peiided  l)etween  the  heaven  and  the 
earth  on  so  airy  a  height  and  so 
narrow  a  cau.seway  that  it  is  al- 
Uiost  a  wonder  that  tho  fierce  moor- 
land wind  has  not  blo«n  it  away. 
The  impetuous  stream,  I  discovered, 
was  calhd  tho  Erme,  auii  tho  name 
of  Ivybriilgc  is  from  an  old  bridge 
that  s])ans  it,  once  embowered  in 
ivy,  and  remarkable  as  being  situ- 
ated in  four  parishes.  There  i.s 
(piite  a  little  town  hero,  and  some 
eonsideiable  paper-mill.s,  Inith  of 
wliich  you  are  glad  to  h.ave  l>ehind 
you  to  explore  the  glen  of  the  Erme. 
It  was  a  still  summer  evening,  and 
beyond  encountering  a  sin^;lo  pair 
of  lovers,  I  was  entirely  t-olitary  in 
the  woods.  There  were  some  lovely 
walks  cut  out,  the  same  that  ar- 
rested my  longing  gaze  from  the 
stufTy  raiUvay  carriage,  and  it  wius 
a  coiistant  amu.^ement  to  try  and 
ford   the   Erme   by   the   rocks  and 


Experiences  on  Dartmoor. 


517 


stonoR  afi^iinst  which  its  current  is 
cniistaiit  I y  cliafing.  Near  the  village 
the  .trlon  is  laid  out  almost  with  the 
reiiularity  of  a  parlc,  but  as  you 
explore  the  river  it  gradually  loses 
this  character.  It  became  lonely 
and  romantic,  wild  and  pathless, 
Vo'i  find  dwarfed  oak  trees  clui-tered 
with  golden  moss  on  the  rooky 
slopes,  and  on  one  side  of  the  stream 
there  is  a  dnary  hill  '  tbe  haunt 
of  a  lazy  echo.'  You  come  to  an- 
cient rings  of  stoni'S  and  granite 
tors,  and  are  soon  out  on  the  wild 
moor.  I  have  been  vehemently 
urged  to  perform  the  journey  be- 
tween Princeton  and  Ivy  bridge, 
and  I  verily  believe  that  this  is  the 
proper  thing  to  do.  But  I  ap- 
proaeheil  Princeton  on  another  oc- 
casion and  in  a  different  way. 

I  must,  however,  first  record  a 
prelfmin;iry  fiiilure.  I  became  a 
me  iiber  of  a  local  association  which 
was  a  kind  of  British  Association  on 
a  reduced  scale.  It  had  a  meeting 
at  Tavistock,  where  Earl  Russell  read 
the  inaugural  address,  and  thesociety 
broke  itself  up  into  alphabetical  sec- 
tions, ate,  drank,  and  speechified,  and 
finally  proposed  to  send  out  an  ex- 
ploring party  to  investigate  a  district 
of  the  moor.  But  the  weather  was 
unpropitious,  and  the  association 
only  attended  to  such  parts  of  its 
programme  as  could  be  transacted 
within  door.s.  Undaunted  by  this 
failure,  a  week  or  two  later  I  at- 
tempted an  exploration  single- 
handed.  I  now  believe,  though  I 
did  not  think  of  it  at  the  time,  that 
I  incurred  some  little  risk. 

I  loitered  on  the  bridge  over  the 
Tavy  at  Tavistock,  admiring  the 
sparkling  and  shadowed  river,  which 
here  forms  a  cascade  and  skirts 
the  old  Abbey  walk.  It  was  four 
or  five  o'clock  in  a  September 
afternoon,  and  I  calculated  that  I 
could  easily  walk  from  Tavistock 
to  Princetown.  I  was  unacquainted 
with  the  difficult  character  of  the 
road,  and  had  also  left  out  of  the 
calculation  that  I  had  been  wander- 
ing for  miles  that  morning  among 
the  lawns  and  groves  of  Eudsleigh, 
and  had  also  had  a  long  drive,  and 
so  my  powers  of  endurance  had 
already  been  rather  heavily  taxed.  I 
started,  however,  with  good  courage, 


through  the  pleasant  countryside  on 
the  east  of  i'avistock.  Gradually 
the  cultivated  ground  faded  off  into 
the  moorland.  On  one  side  of  the 
road  cultivation  was  pushed  further 
than  on  the  other  ;  but  agricultural 
eiforts  became  sparse,  less  and  le-s 
satisfactory,  and  presently  ceased. 
I  felt  fatigued  ;  and  the  few  speci- 
mens of  gigmanity  which  I  en- 
countered were  travelling  in  a  direc- 
tion contrary  to  my  own.  The  road 
was  good,  however.  I  felt  als  >  the 
invigorating  effects  of  Dartmoor  air 
and  water-  Wonderful  air  and 
water!  I  had  no  notion  that  these 
common  blessings  could  attain  to  so 
rare  a  quality.  As  for  tlie  air,  they 
say  that  no  one  brought  up  in  Dart- 
moor air  was  ever  known  to  die  of 
a  consumption ;  and  the  water  more 
than  rivalled  my  favourite  draughts 
at  Loch  Katrine,  A  canopy  of  misty 
cloud  was  over  me ;  but  below  and 
beyond  the  cloud  I  saw  in  the  di.s- 
tance  the  red  sunlight  illuming  the 
villas  and  meadows  of  Tavistock  I 
came  presently  to  a  rude  little  way- 
side hostel,  \\here  it  was  grateful  to 
rest  for  a  few  minutes.  A  few 
minutes  was  all  that  I  could  allow 
myself,  for  I  must  not  be  benighted 
on  the  moor.  As  I  left  the  lonely 
inn,  a  person  who  may  be  con- 
ventionally described  as  a  *  rough- 
looking  customer'  volunteered  his 
company,  and  I,  not  being  proud, 
consented.  It  is  quite  uprm  my 
conscience  that  I  have  not  shown  a 
proper  sense  of  gratitude  to  that 
*  rough -looking  customer.'  He  com- 
bined, I  discovered,  the  professional 
character  of  a  mason,  with  the  Bo- 
hemian tastes  of  a  tramp  He  had 
tramped,  he  tokl  me,  from  Penz  nee 
to  London,  and  he  evinced  a  very 
keen  sense  of  the  varied  character  of 
the  scenery  which  he  had  traversed. 
But  he  espe:-ially  interested  me  with 
his  account  of  the  road  over  which 
we  were  passing ;  and,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  test  his  state- 
ments, I  have  found  them  perfectly 
correct. 

'  It  was  a  dangerous  road,'  he 
said.  The  straight  path  and  the 
fiirm  road — so  different  from  the 
average  Devonshire  lane,  which  is  as 
dirty  as  it  is  picturesque, — hardly 
seemed    to  confirm  the  assertion. 


•■lis 


Exptriences  on  Darluioor* 


'  Ouly  a  twelvemonth  ajro,  on  nn 
evening  n.s  luif^ht  l>o  tliis,  only 
(iarker,  later,  and  dirtier,  a  scliool- 
master  of  I'linretown,  wlio  know 
every  inch  of  tho  way.  fell  down, 
bafHed  and  exhanstid,  and  died 
where  iio  fell.  There  were  some 
stron:.'  soldiers  too,  wlio  came  down 
from  I'lymoutli.and  made  sure  that 
tliey  could  mareli  all  night.  They 
were  overwhelmed  in  a  snow-drift 
and  perisiied.  It  was  in  the  winter 
tluit  all  tho  honihle  things  hai)- 
l>(.ned  ;  and  there  was  scarcely  ever 
a  winter  without  them.  In  the 
summer,  if  you  were  lost  on  the 
moor,  it  was  hut  to  lie  down  and 
sleep  till  morning.  He  had  done  so 
several  times,  and  had  l)eeu  notliing 
t!)e  worse  for  it.'  We  hinted  to  the 
friendly  tramp  that  he  had  prol)al)]y 
been  the  worse  for  liijuor.  Friendly 
tiam]),  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  ad- 
mitted that  this  ha  I  l)eeu  the  Ciu-e. 
He  remembereii,  a  numlier  of  years 
ago,  seeing  a  very  atYecting  sight  at 
tliat  little  inn.  '  It  was  a  dreary 
winter,  anil  the  snow  lay  deep  on 
tlie  groimd,  and  the  roads  were 
simply  impassable.  The  man  who 
had  the  government  contract  for 
meat  to  supply  Dartmoor  prison 
found  himself  unable  to  deliver  tho 
stores.  JIo  a«ked  the  governor 
whether,  if  he  could  bring  them  as 
far  as  this  wayside  iim,  the  governor 
Would  let  a  dc'a^hment  of  convicts 
meet  him  at  the  inn  and  convoy  the 
provi.sions  to  tho  prison.  The 
governor  consented ;  and  at  tho 
ujiix)inted  time  about  a  d(jzen  con- 
victs were  there  under  a  guard. 
'  They  set  al>out  their  work  uncom- 
mon Well.  Well,  sir,  ho  was  a  good- 
natured  chai),  that  butcher,  and  he 
asked  the  governor  whether  he 
might  give  the  fellows  some  liquor, 
as  they  were  working  so  liard  and 
the  weati  er  wasfo  bitter.  I'lrhaps 
it  wuH  what  had  never  happened 
before,  but  the  }j(ntriior  said  that 
ihf  y  might  have  h!ilf-a-i)int  of  beer 
apiece.  Lor,  sir!  it  would  have 
done  your  heart  gfKxl  to  liave  seen 
the  l»oor  fellows  over  their  beer. 
Some  of  them  Ijailn't  seen  such  a 
thing  tor  many  a  long  ymr.  You 
should  just  iiavc  seen  how  they 
ta.sted  it,  and  lingered  over  it,  an<l 
made  quite  a  piece  of  business  with 


the  half-pint.  Big  blackguards  them 
convicts,  .sir.  But  there  was  a  sad 
business  only  last  night.  A  poor 
woman  came  all  the  way  from  Liver- 
pool to  see  her  husb.md  ;  and  when 
she  came  she  (ound  that  only  a  few 
days  before  he  luul  been  dratted  ofif 
into  some  other  convict  establish- 
ment, bhe  wa.s  liked  to  have  gone 
straight  otT.  They  comforted  her 
up  a  bit,  and  there  was  a  sum  of 
money  subscriU-d  for  her.  You  may 
see  the  convicts  anjwliero  almost 
working  about  the  roails.  Some- 
times they  escape  ;  but  there's  very 
little  chance  for  them.  They  are 
lost  upon  the  moor,  and  haven't 
a  notion  what  to  do  with  themselves. 
Besides,  I'm  told  that  there's  a 
tower  within  the  jirison,  where  con- 
stantly there's  one  or  two  men 
watrhing  all  the  countiy  round  to 
see  if  there's  any  escape  attempted. 
And  what  would  tlie  poor  fellows 
do  in  a  wild  country  like  this  ?  They 
wouldn't  know  wlitre  to  go  to. 
They've  wandered  about  until  they 
have  surrendered  to  tho  lirst  child 
or  old  man  who  woukl  take  them. 
There's  a  good  reward  ollered  by 
government  for  any  escai)ed  con- 
vict, and  any  one  would  Ikj  glad  to 
earn  it.  The  only  chance  the  poor 
fellows  have  is  to  get  to  son  e  ganlen 
where  clothes  are  hanging  out,  and 
manage  to  steal  sometiiing  that  will 
conceal  the  yellow  clothes.'  He  pro- 
ceeded to  com|)Iain  that  the  con- 
victs had  less  labour  and  iietter  fare 
than  labourers,  and  were  allowed  to 
leave  otT  wf)rk  and  go  under  sheds 
if  it  rained.  Here,  liowever,  my 
trami)ing  friend  was  guilty  of  an 
anachronism.  The  too  good  diet 
was  very  much  the  case  a  few  years 
ago  ;  but  since  then  alterations  have 
been  ma<le  which  go,  1  tiiink,  into 
the  other  extreme.  When  1  lusked 
next  Sunday  evening  what  the  con- 
victs had  had  during  the  day,  I  was 
told  tliat  it  hid  only  Imjcu  bread  and 
water,  and  a  little  chee-e.  As  for 
the  consideration  shown  them  in  bad 
weather,  wjiich  I  did  not  hear  much 
of  afterwards,  it  is  to  be  recolltcted 
that  Dartmoor  is  a  sanatorium  for 
invalid  jmsonei-s,  many  of  them 
chest-cases,  and  it  would  not  do  to 
expose  them  to  what  might  Ix)  a 
real  jicril.     My  friend   told  me  a 


Uxperiences  on  Dartmoor* 


619 


raarvellous  story  which  exactly  re- 
peated Hogarth's  Two  Apprmtices: 
— Two  young  fellows  had  been  work- 
men together,  and  lived  in  the  same 
room.  They  separated,  and,  after 
the  lapse  of  years,  they  met  again  ; 
one  of  them  as  the  governor  of  the 
prison,  and  the  other  as  one  of  the 
convicts  within  its  walls.  More 
probalile  were  cases  of  which  he 
told  me  where  convicts,  witliin  a 
very  short  time  after  their  reUase, 
had  been  brought  back  again,  wholly 
bent  upon  denying  their  identity. 
That  is  not  so  easily  done,  as  there 
is  a  regular  photographic  institution 
at  the  prison,  and  each  convict  has 
his  portrait  taken  twice,  of  which 
one  copy  is  left  in  the  prison,  and 
the  other  is  sent  to  the  locality 
where  the  released  criminal  is  sup- 
posed to  be  about  to  proceed. 

Thus,  with  various  discourse,  we 
beguiled  the  way.  The  last  hues  of 
snnset  vanished  much  earlier  than 
I  had  calculated ;  a  heavy  mist 
came  down.  My  companion  pro- 
posed a  short  cut,  to  which,  not 
without  trepidation,  I  consented, 
but  which  brought  us  all  right. 
It  was  quite  dark  before  we  entered 
Princeton,  so  dark,  indeed,  that  one 
could  hardly  see  the  way ;  most  easy 
would  it  have  been  for  any  traveller 
to  miss  the  high  road.  When  we 
got  to  the  inn  I  requested  my  friend 
to  take  his  beer  into  the  tap-room 
to  my  score ;  but  on  looking  back 
on  that  dark  evening,  the  heavy 
mist,  the  unknown  path,  my  state 
of  thorough  fatigue,  I  wonder  very 
much  what  I  should  have  done 
without  his  friendly  aid,  and  am  by 
no  means  sure  that  I  did  not  incur 
some  risk.  I  wish  I  had  asked  that 
fellow  to  have  had  some  supper, 
and  given  him  something  hot,  aud 
cultivated  his  better  acquaintance. 
But,  singularly  enough,  I  believed 
it  occurred  to  neither  of  us  at  the 
time  that  anything  more  had  hap- 
pened than  casual  companionship 
on  a  dark,  tiring  road. 

At  my  hostel  I  found  my  carpet 
bag,  which  had  gone  on  a  day  be- 
fore, and  which  contained  my  '  Mur- 
ray.' I  found  that  Murray  had  got 
quite  a  sensation  sentence  about 
Prince's  Town.  'It  is  situated  at 
least  1400  feet  above  the  level  of  the 


sea,  at  the  foot  of  N.  Hessary  Tor 
(alt.  1730  feet),  and  is  surrounded 
on  all  sides  by  the  moor,  which 
comes  in  unbroken  wildness  to  the 
very  door  of  the  iim.  With  such 
dismal  scenery  the  hotel  is  in  keep- 
ing ;  its  granite  walls  are  grim  and 
cheerless,  but  the  windows  com- 
mai:d  an  in)posing  sweep  of  the 
waste,  and  this  will  be  an  attraction 
to  many  travellers.  It  is  truly  im- 
pressive to  gaze  upon  this  desolate 
region  when  the  wind  is  howling 
through  the  lonely  village  and  the 
moon  fttfully  shining.'  I  am  bound 
to  say  that,  however  cheerless  the 
exterior,  within  doors  things  weie 
paiticularly  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  my  account  for  the  four  days  I 
sojourned  there  quite  moderate.  It 
was  certainly  a  drawback  that  the 
rain  came  down  with  such  sullen 
pertinacity;  but  being  of  a  cheerful, 
hopeful  temperament,  with  a  strong 
leaning  towards  optimism,  I  found 
consoling  thouglits.  A  great  lady 
who  visited  Ptome  in  the  summer 
told  me  that  it  was  a  great  thing  to 
see  Italy  in  its  own  climate ;  so  I 
suppose  it  was  a  great  thing  to  see 
Dartmoor  in  its  proper  climate. 

There  is,  perhaps,  much  to  be 
said  in  favour  of  the  theory  of  see- 
ing Dartmoor  weather.  I  had  not 
the  moial  courage  to  venture  out 
into  mist  and  teiupest;  but  mist 
and  tempest  once  or  twice  overtook 
me  in  my  rambles.  There  is  some- 
thing very  weird  and  solemn  in  a 
Dartmoor  mist.  You  feel  yourself 
draped  in  its  sombre  folds  ;  the  im- 
palpable seems  to  grow  palpable ; 
every  near  object  looms  larger  than 
human ;  the  tors  expand  into  gigan- 
tic masses ;  a  stray  sheep  almost 
assumes  elephantine  piojiDrtions. 
These  thick  mists  are  formed  by  the 
condensation  of  the  Atlantic  vapours 
on  the  chilly  heights.  If  you  are 
really  lost,  it  is  best  to  listen  for  the 
hoarse  roar  of  some  stream.  AVhc n 
you  have  found  your  way  to  some 
torrent,  it  is  your  best  chance  of 
safety  to  follow  the  downward 
course  till  you  come  to  some  habi- 
tation of  man.  The  rivers  them- 
selves are  often  sources  of  danger. 
There  is  a  moorland  rhyme— 

'  River  of  Dart,  river  of  Dart, 
Every  year  thou  claimest  a  heart' 


;:(» 


7r.'j)'f/cwrps  OH  Dartmoor. 


Evny  year  Romo  one  is  drowned 
in  the  river,  ftdiiinj;  to  tlic  iiiiiiilxT 
(»t  uifu  wlio  liavu  I  ton  lost  on  ]>iirt- 
Jiioor.  Tiny  say  that  the  J 'ait  al- 
most gives  an  intelligilile  liiiinan 
'  cry.'  It  has  an  awful  sound  in  the 
stillness.  'J'urt  eanie  down  last 
ni^'lit,'  is  a  common  expression  of 
the  moorsmen,  when  theiM  has  been 
a  swollen  stream  and  snd<len  innn- 
(latioii.  There  is  something  very 
stnrdy  nnd  independent  in  the  cha- 
racter of  the  moorsmen.  Mounted 
on  their  stnrdy  Dartmoor  ponies, 
fleet  and  strong  beyond  all  conijia- 
rison  with  tluir  size,  the  men  and 
their  animals  harmonise  very  well 
toi^'etJier,  and  afford  a  jiictnre  of  ])ri- 
initi^e  manners  of  wliich  the  coun- 
terpart IS  not  often  to  he  f  tund.  I 
was  tadving  to  one  of  them  liy  the 
side  of  the  Teign,  and  he  told  mo 
that  his  home  was  close  by  the 
source  of  the  river,  and  ho  could 
cover  with  his  hat  the  bubbling 
s])ring  from  which  it  flowed.  To 
those  who  know  Teignmonth  and 
l)artmouth,  the  Teign  and  Dart  of 
tlie  mo')rs,  lucid  streams  transpa- 
rently covering  thiir  bed,  give  a 
strikmg  cfmtnist;  here  a  bubbling 
fountain,  and  there  a  mighty  estuary 
where  a  navy  may  ride  m  security. 
The  fertility  and  loveliness  of  Sf>utli 
Devon  are  materially  owing  to  this 
rugged  background  of  Jtartmoor. 
Tliese  garden  shores,  smiling  meads, 
and  bowery  hollows  are  i\\\c  to  the 
elevated  granite  masses  which  shield 
them  from  tlie  northern  blast;  and 
on  Dartmoor  some  fifty  or  sixty 
fit  reams  take  their  rise,  many  of 
whicli  lose  themselves  in  the  C'han- 
nel,  and  scatter  beauty  and  plenty 
on  their  couri-e. 

1  thus  approaclied  Dartmoor  on 
its  western  side,  varying  my  route 
by  returning  over  the  wild  road 
tha»  leads  from  Princeton  to  Ilorni- 
bridge.  On  my  next  <xp.cliiion  I 
approached  it  on  the  ea>t(  rn  hide 
1  mmlc  it  from  Chngtord.  Here 
Si<lnej  Gixlolphin  was  killed  in  the 
civil  vmryi,  '  having,'  sjiys  Lord  ('la- 
rendon,  '  the  misfortune  of  his  deal  h 
upon  a  place  which  could  iiever 
otlierwi.se  have  had  a  mention  in  the 
World.'  C'h'g''or<l,  however,  is  very 
vr«li  Inown,  a  favourite  and  even  a 
Inshionab'e  p'ncc  of  resi  leicc  in  t'  e 


summer  to  those  who  want  to  'do' 
the  moor  country.  '  In  winter,' 
writes  a  visitor,  'Cliagfonl  is  desolate 
and  almost  unapiiroiKdiablo ;  and  if 
an  inluil'itant  bo  asked  at  this  sea- 
son concerning  his  locality,  he  calls 
it,  in  Slid  tones,  "  Ciiagiord,  good 
Lord."  In  stunmer  it  is]iictures(jUO 
and  accessible,  and  then  the  exult- 
ing designation  is  "  Chag^iford,  nnd 
wliat  d'ye  think?"'  There  is  an- 
other place  which  iscalKd  '  Widde- 
combe  in  the  Dartmoors,' or  '  Wid- 
deeoiiihe  in  the  cold  country,  good 
Lord.'  In  Widdccomtie  Church, 
the  tower  of  which  may  l)o  com- 
paic'l  with  the  famous  tower  of 
Jlagdaleii  College,  is  an  inscription 
recording  a  terribh;  storm  wliich 
liujipeiieii  two  hundied  years  ago, 
wheu  a  ball  of  tiie  dashed  through 
a  window  into  the  midst  of  the  con- 
gregation, killing  a  few  people  nnd 
wounding  scores  more.  If  you  come 
from  London  you  should  approach 
the  moor  liy  way  of  Fingle  JJridge 
and  the  gorge  of  the  Teif;n.  Pro- 
]  eriy  speaking,  this  wonderful  bit 
of  Swiss  scenery,  for  such  it  really 
is,  beyond  any  other  in  the  west  of 
England,  does  not  belong  to  Dart- 
moor, unless  indeed,  which  there  is 
no  authority  for  nssertin.',  it  once 
belonged  to  the  moor  before  so 
much  of  it  was  reclaimed.  The 
bridge  serves  to  centralize  the 
scenery  ;  a  very  pretty  briilge  over 
a  ra])id  brawling  stieain,  on  eiiher 
sidi'  of  which  rise  most  precipitous 
hills.  There  is  a  monntain  |mth 
along  the  heights,  over  which  the 
racing  breezes  aic  always  coursing, 
which  gi\es  perhaps  the  most  won- 
(lerfid  walk  of  two  miles  with  which 
I  am  acipiainted  in  the  west  of 
England.  I  considerably  astonislicd 
some  people  in  the  neighbourhood 
by  stating,  on  the  authority  of  the 
very  Kariied  Jtoman  history  pub- 
lished by  the  Cliaj»lain  to  the  Ibmsc 
of  Commons,  that  the  camjts  on  the 
opf>osing  mountains  marked  the 
last  conllicts  Ixdwecn  llie  llomnns 
and  the  native  Damnonii,  nnd  it  was 
Somewhere  about  heie  that  Titus 
fa^ed  the  life  of  his  Tither,  Vespa- 
sian. It  was  very  curious  to  tlicin, 
thus  bringing  Titus  ami  Nispn-ian 
into  connection  with  the  localilits 
in  the  neigldKmrho  m1  of  Dartmoor 


l»r.i"ii  l>_v  KiiiH!  Wood.] 


■■.'r.af«#%Mfci 


STILL    UNCONCERNED. 


[Si-c  I  In-  Stor>. 


SltU  UnmnrriexL 


531 


I  must  fay  of  these  localities  that 
tlie  sceuery  of  luany  of  thein  is 
uiore  varied  and  striking  than  that 
of  Dartmwr  itself.  Y  ju  luay  linger 
on  at  Chagfurd  for  many  days, 
sconring  the  surrounfling  conntry 
Wonderfully  pretty  i.s  the  river  Teign 
about  a  mile  from  Chagford,  unpre- 
ferved  and  with  wonderful  trout- 
fifehing.  I  met  in  fehrnary  a  man 
with  rod  and  line,  auc  T  am  afiaid 
to  mention  the  vast  nnmi  crot  irout 
^vhich  he  had  caught  in  a  very  few 
Lours.  You  should  secure  the  ser- 
vices of  Mr.  Perrot.  who  is  the 
liest  guide  for  Jjartmoor.  You 
would  not  wi.«h  for  better  accom- 
modation than  the  Three  Crowns  at 
Chagford  :  and  in  the  vi.«-itors'  book 
I  read  qui^e  a  little  esfay  on  Chag- 
ford Church,  by  Charles  Kiugsley, 
and  noted  among  many  interesting 
Lames  that  of  A.  H.  Clough. 

At  Dartmoor  you  may  hear  stories 
of  fairies  and  pixies,  stories  of  rob- 
bers and  outlaws,  stories  of  bards 
and  druids.  There  is  a  learned 
literatxue  on  Dartmoor  suV'jects 
■which  is  really  of  coniiierable  im- 
portance.   There    are   papers    and 


tran.saction^  of  the  Arch^eok^kaJ 
S<x-ie»y  and  the  Geolo-^ical  Society, 
ilrs.  Bray  has  given  nearly  all  the 
first  volimie  of  her  '  Devonshire  Le- 
gends '  to  these  subject ;  there  is  a 
poem  on  Dartmoor  by  Carrington, 
which  you  don't  appreciate  very 
much  in  your  own  Kxjm,  but  appre- 
ciate mightily  on  the  moor;  aiid 
a  most  worthy  clergyman  at 
Crertiton  wrote  a  '  Perambulatk^n 
of  Dartmoor,'  which  will  always  be 
a  standard  voluLue  on  the  subject. 
The  Druidical  remain-s  are  the  most 
perplexed  and  important  subjects, 
as  interesting  in  their  way  as  those 
of  Avebury  and  Stonehenge.  But 
the  moor  itself  will  be  your  best 
teacher.  Only  leave  the  three  or 
four  if-ads  which  intersect  it,  an  i  in 
remote  glen  or  gorge,  by  misty  tor 
or  rushing  stream,  .stretched  on 
velvet  moss  by  the  .'ide  of  the  golden 
furze,  which  made  Linneeus  fail 
down  on  his  knees  and  thank  (rA 
for  making  so  beau'^iful  a  thing,  you 
may  reascend  the  stream  of  time, 
and  surround  yourself  with  the  un- 
changed rtjdhts  which  once  belor.ged 
to  Druidical  Britain. 


STILL  UNMAEEIED. 


AGLOETOrS  September  evemng 
in  Scotlan  1. 

Tall  hills  dipt  in  purple  gloom, 
and  from  behind  their  ma-sive  lines 
the  dazzling  light  of  sunset. 

Gold — red  amber — with  sharp- 
cut  lines  of  crimson  ckudlet. 

Far  below,  in  the  rarrow  valley, 
a  pearl-white  tarn,  set  in  a  ring  of 
dark  fir  trees.  Above  tVie  little  lake 
shelving  steep  tanks,  hrriken,  and 
birch  clad,  leading  up  to  the  terrace 
patchwork  of  flowers— scar  k-t,  gold, 
and  green  and  to  the  vehetlawn  all 
aglow  in  the  sunshine. 

Even  the  grim  walls  of  the  castle 
wore  a  poetic  pallor  over  the  streaky 
whitewash  of  their  unsymmetrical 
outline,  and  the  small,  unkindly 
windows  were  transfigrLred  by  ihe 
diamond  blaze  with  which  they 
answered  the  evening  sun.  The 
shadow  ky  all  across  the  lawn,  by 
the  great  lime  trees  and  the  grand 
silver  fir.    To  the  right,  and  where 


the  light  met  the  shade,  a  bright 
line  of  c-o^onr — bine,  red,  and  b  ff 
Shawls  and  cushions  tossed  into 
heaps,  and  two  pretty  women,  1  alf 
reclining  on  them,  in  pale  gauzy 
dresses. 

Blanche  EversTey,  the  farrfrof  the 
two,  was  one  of  those  women  whom 
men  worship,  and  won.en  (tl.ose 
who  are  not  jt-alou>,  call  a  '  darling.' 

She  gave  you  the  idea  of  l-eing 
'  little.'  She  had  coaxing  ways,  anl 
never  ltr>red  you.  She  flirted  a  good 
deal,  and  wa-  devoted  to  Jack,  her 
husband.  Shedressed  charmingly  .but 
an  imitation  other  generally  proved  a 
failure ;  for  the  beads,  trinkets,  bits 
of  lace,  ard  •gfic-rks  innumerabl 
that  she  wore,  looked  tawdry  on  anj 
other,  while  they  fitted  her  provok- 
ing, delicate  style  of  prettiness  ani 
perfection. 

She  was  given  to  friendship,  and 
the  object  of  t<>day  was  her  com- 
patjion,  Georgiana  Filmer,  a  young 


>22 


jSV/7/  ihnnarricd. 


la*iy  of  some  fonr  years  hor  senior, 
luit  wlioiii  tlic  little  matron  was 
chaiuroiiinp  at  Castle  (ilooin,  with 
tlie  uvownl  intcution  of  iimkiiif?  a 
match  Ut Willi  her  and  Frank 
FiasiT,  their  liost. 

It  is  inii)ossil'lc  to  descril>e  Georgie 
Filmer. 

5>he  was  lienntifnl ;  beeanse  when 
you  had  been  under  the  influence  of 
her  eyes  and  voice  for  a  day,  you 
said  to  yourself  she  was  beautiful, 
but  you  coulil  not  (lef-cril)e  her.  She 
had  brown  liair  that  was  somitiiiics 
fair,  sometimes  dark ;  she  was  tall 
and  graceful ;  and  Fiank  Fraser 
was  as  much  in  love  with  her  as 
heart  could  wish. 

'"Tirra  Lina  on  the  River." 
When  will  these  good  people  come 
home  and  let  us  have  tea?'  .'■aid 
Blanche,  plucking  the  daisies  and 
throwing  them  about  idly.  '  I  am  so 
fond  of  that  pnem,  but  I  never  can 
make  out  what  it  means,  can  you?' 

'  She  was  bored,  poor  dear  wonian 
— small  blame  to  her— with  that 
everlasting  spinning;  and  then 
gomel>ody  came,  and  she—.  By-the- 
by,  what  '/A/  she  do?     I  forget.' 

'  So  do  I ;  only  I  know  it  is  all 
very  f-al  and  pretty.' 

'  The  i>est  of  all  receipts  for  making 
one  do  evil  deeds — "to  be  lK)red." 
What  terrible  moments  the  author 
must  liavo  umlergone  lufore  he 
could  describe  it  so  well — do  you 
recollect,  in  "  Mariana?"  Only  he 
should  have  said  it  was  a  seaside 
lodging-house,  with  a  horsehair  .sofa, 
and  a  smell  of  dinner,  to  make  the 
situation  perfect.' 

'  Ah !  to  be  sure,'  replied  Blanche ; 
'  only  I  don't  know  "  Mariana."  I 
never  can  rememl>er  things,  at 
least  only  certain  ones.  It  is  all 
pi  act  ire,  I  Klieve.  Wonderful  how 
vividly  some  little  things  stick  in 
one's  niemory,'  she  added,  after  a 
pause. 

BIhucIic  sighe<l,  and  trie<l  to 
recollect  sonietln'ng  trivial, yet  terri- 
ble, that  should  stick  ever  in  her 
memory,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she 
could  recall  nothing  but  what  was 
p«.'rfectly  bright  and  plea.saut,  and 
W)  only  IfKiked  pensive,  for  the  sake 
of  app'  aranccs. 

'  l)on't  yon  think  wo  might  en- 
snare Sandy  into  giving  us  tea  out 


here?'  Georgie  said,  presently ;  'or 
would  the  lUuke's  wrath  be  too 
great  ?' 

'  I  don't  care  if  she  is  angry. 
Georgie  darling ;  when  you  are  Mrs. 
Frank,  I  trust  you  will  do  away 
with  I.aily  Blake.  I  know  he  liate-s 
her,  and  to  my  mind  she  is  the 
greatest  nui.sancc  alive,  except  her 
daughter.  How  nice  it  will  Ik3,  dear, 
when  it  is  all  settled!  I  will  come 
and  see  you  every  year,  and  you 
shall  stay  with  me  in  London.  Just 
fancy,  how  delicious!  1  do  wish 
you  would  let  him  say  liis  little 
speech  soon,  dear.  I  see  liim  com- 
po.sing  it  all  day  long,  and  then  you 
shut  iiim  up  when  he  is  just  ready.' 

'  Far  l)etter  for  him  not  to  say  it 
at  all,  my  dear,'  Georgie  replied. 

Lady  Blanche  sat  up,  and  was 
quite  red  and  energetic.  '  Georgie, 
you  7)i)(s/ — you  Kiiitl  you  would. 
Dear  Gee,  you  really  will  not  refuse 
him  after  all.  I  shall  l>e  t(X) angry ; 
and,  dear,  you  don't  know  how  1 
wish  it;  and  Jack— Jack  wislies  it, 
too,  lie  says,  and  we  IkjiIi  think  it 
will  be  so  verv,  very — .  How!  it 
will—.' 

'Ah— yes— I  understand;  it  will 
ini]>rove  me,  and  bring  out  my  gocnl 
qualities.  I  am  pirfectly  happy 
with  my  present  bad  lot.  I  should 
not  know  what  to  do  with  good  ones. 
I  should  have  to  put  on  my  Sunday 
gown  for  them  every  day  of  the 
week.  Ofcour.se  I  sliall  accept  him. 
Lady  Blake  says  a  woman  will 
marry  itni/Z/iin;/ nftcr  she  is  tivoand- 
tweiity,  and  /  am  a])Out  a  hundred. 
I  only  pity  him,  poor  dear!  You 
sec,  Blanche,  matrimony  shows  it- 
self to  you  in  a  ])iiik  light.  You  are 
young.  The  universe  is  a  mirror 
that  reflects  only  your  Jack.  It  is 
all  tuned  to  the  i)itcli  of  his  tiddle — 
violin,  I  mean.  That  is  all  (piito 
natural  and  charming.  Jack's 
moustache  is  a  poem  in  itself,  and 
he  plays  like  an  angel.  But  with  mo 
it  is  (iifferent.  I  am  tfx)  old  for 
grand  paiisitjns.  Frank's  whiskers 
are  too  curly;  he  is  too  plump  to 
inspire  one.  Ho  is  made  to  bo 
bullied  by  women.  I  want  someone 
to  bully  mr,  1  think.  A  master — 
not  a  slave.' 

Lady  Blanche  held  her  tonguo, 
Ix'ing    shrewd    enough    to    dett'ct 


Still  Unmarried. 


523 


spinster  inexperience  in  the  latter 
clause  of  her  friend's  speech. 

The  argument  was  not  recom- 
menced. Footsteps  on  the  gravel 
announced  the  rest  of  the  party — 
three  ladies  in  stout  boots,  linsey 
gowns,  and  the  air  of  self-satisfaction 
that  always  pervades  the  conscien- 
tious takers  of  exercise  after  a  long 
walk. 

There  is  a  certain  class  of  young 
ladies  to  be  met  with  in  every 
country  house,  be  the  party  great  or 
small. 

Nut  specially  pretty,  not  specially 
young,  not  specially  well  dressed, 
but  tidy,  very,  Gen<irally  short  and 
slim,  with  smooth  dark  hair,  good 
feet,  and  very  strong  boots. 

They  are  good-natured,  but  capa- 
ble of  taking  good  care  of  them- 
selves. 

Very  pleasant  to  talk  to,  but  not 
dangerously  fascinating.  They  do 
bead  work ;  they  have  good  teeth ; 
and  flirt  with  any  disengaged  object, 
but  never  attempt  rivalry  or  inspire 
jealousy. 

They  waltz  with  the  tallest  men 
at  the  county  ball,  and  are  apt  to 
marry  ofhctrs,  or  well-to-do  parsons ; 
and,  for  the  rest,  they  make  capital 
wives. 

Of  this  class  or  type  Julia  Gort 
was  a  perfect  specimen.  She  was 
Lucy  Blake's  friend,  and  had  come 
to  Castle  Gloom  with  her  and  her 
mother,  and  she  was  as  cheery  as  a 
bird,  even  after  the  tallest  of  the 
Berties  had  deliberately  abandoned 
her  colours  on  the  arrival  of  Blauche 
Eversely.  Lucy  Blake  confided  her 
religious  opinions,  and  made  her 
play  the  bass  of  her  duets.  Miss 
Blake  was  devoted  to  Mendelssohn, 
as  she  told  you  shortly  after  you 
were  introduced ;  and  she  required 
of  every  one,  before  bestowing  on 
them  her  good  opinion,  or,  indeed, 
her  smallest  consideration,  that  they 
should  '  appreciate  the  classical  com- 
posers,' and  prefer  ]\Iozart  to  Meyer- 
lieer,  Weber  to  Verdi. 

She  was  excellent,  and  slightly 
obstinate;  had  solemn  blue  eyes, 
reddish  hands,  and  a  quantity  of  hair 
which  she  scorned  to  dress  in  any 
but  the  plainest  fashion,  and  she 
was  really  and  truly  in  love  with 
Frank  Fraser.    Lady  Blake  was  like 


the  dame  in  the  epitaph,  '  bland, 
passionate,  and  dteply  religious.' 
She  had  large  features,  and  was 
(erroneously)  supposed  to  have 
been  handsome  in  her  jouth,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  she  wore  high 
top-knots  by  night,  and  wonderful 
bonnets  by  day. 

She  exhausted  herself  in  trying  to 
believe,  and  make  other  people  be- 
lieve, that  she  was  a  clever  woman, 
and  she  really  did  think  she  was 
logical. 

She  had  faith  in  long  walks,  go- 
loshes, early  rising,  and  her  own 
opinions,  and  she  made  worse  tea 
than  any  one  in  the  kingdom ;  but 
she  was  really  Icind  hearted,  and 
capable  of  unselfish  acts,  with,  how- 
ever, a  sense  of  appreciation  of  such 
acts  in  herself  as  diminished  their 
grace. 

'Had  such  a  delightful  walk,' 
they  exclaimed  in  chorus. 

*  How  horribly  tired  you  must  be,' 
was  the  unsympathetic  rejoinder. 

Miss  Gort  added  that  the  gentle- 
men were  just  behind  them,  to  which 
fact  a  banging  of  guns  close  to  the 
castle  bore  testimony. 

'  Who  was  that  tall  man  that 
walked  with  Mr.  Bertie?'  Lady  Blake 
asked  of  her  mother:  'one  of  the 
Grants  ?' 

'  No ;  I  did  not  know  his  face.  He 
is  too  tall  for  a  Gordon.  He  might 
be  a  keeper.' 

'  Oh,  mamma !  Oh,  Lady  Blake ! 
He  was  not  a  keeper;  he  has  come 
back  with  the  others,  besides.  He 
must  be  some  new  gutst.' 

'  Impossible,'  said  Lady  Blake. 
'  Frank  would  scarcely  have  failed 
in  savoir  /aire  so  completely  as  to 
omit  telling  me,  his  aunt,  if  he  had 
invited  more  people.* 

Miss  Gort  looked  sorry  for  having 
spoken ;  and  Miss  Filmer,  taking  no 
interest  in  the  matter,  got  up  from 
her  cushions  and  dawdled  towards 
the  castle,  whither  the  others  fol- 
lowed her  almost  directly. 

Most  of  the  rooms  in  the  castle 
were  still — as  they  had  been  in  the 
old  knight's  time — unlovely,  and 
scant  of  comfort. 

The  high  narrow  passages  could 
not  be  altered ;  the  stone  stair  had 
still  its  Fraser  tartan  carpeting  ;  the 
saloon  was  a  dreary  waste ;  and  the 


62i 


Still  Uuviarried. 


liall  pnutit,  proy,  nnd  cliilly  even 
in  Kuuinicr;  Imt  oiio  ro<iiii  in  tin* 
tower  Fniiik  Imd  altind  fur  liis 
sjiecial  K'tioof,  ami  lind  nponised 
arcliitc'ctunil  swiiinetry  In  llnowiup 
f)iit  a  l)o\v-wiii(U)\v  tliat  opened  with 
stops  on  to  tile  liiwii. 

It  was  tl:e  dmrtbt  little  octapr  n 
romi  you  ever  paw,  witli  soft,  wido 
sofas,  dark-reil  velvet  ai/d  hip  brass 
nails  at  the  chinineypiece,  and  black 
K-arskin  rng  I'efoie  the  deep 
hearth. 

Cunuinp  arin-ehairs,  low  and 
spring-stufTed,  and  fat  f-qnarc  foot- 
sKxils,  that  did  not  lose  their  ba- 
lance every  time  you  passed  them, 
as  did  certain  evil-disposed  ones, 
with  pilt  claws,  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

On  one  of  these  stools  Miss  Fil- 
nier  stated  herself,  close  to  the 
window;  while  Blanche  po.ssessed 
herself  of  the  key  to  the  tea-table, 
by  sfpieezing  past  its  three  curved 
legs,  and  adroitly  gaining  the  tea- 
pot, before  Lady  131ako  had  divested 
her  feet  of  the  goloshes  she  was 
wont  to  wear  in  the  finest  weather. 

Outside  the  window,  the  sports- 
men assembled— the  two  lierties, 
iininenGely  j^icturesque  in  their  .tall 
T^n^kse  liats — Jack  Everslcy,  with 
pniiiy  l)or)ts  and  hands  deep  in  the 
pocb'ts  of  his  old  shooting-coat, 
drtaiuing  of  a  .sonata— and  Frank 
with  the  unknown  petting  Brown 
BesB,  the  pet  setter,  in  tlie  back- 
ground ;  and  Major  Fitzwigram 
(the  '  Ojurt  Journal'  tluy  called 
him,  for  his  anecdotes  and  pene- 
ral  verfiicity)  had  come  into  the 
IxMidoir,  and  was  Ixing  charming 
to  Miss  Gort  and  Lucy  Blake  alK)nt 
their  walkinu;  powers,  which,  he 
said,  reminded  him  so  exactly  of  the 
De  Lays  ('le-eautiful  women— one 
of  them  married  the  I>uk<'  of— hem 
— hem— jou  know,  when  they  were 
girls).  As  she  sat  by  the  window, 
with  the  datTixlil  sky  behind  the 
jKarl-Bhad')we<l  outline  of  lierfigure, 
with  the  light  lingering  on  the 
j*  welle<i  hnket  at  her  throat,  and 
touching  her  hair  with  a  golden 
caress,  Georgie  half-dreamt,  half- 
thought,  of  a  day  long  ngf»,  when  a 
voice,  unheard  now  for  ten  long 
years,  had  lieen  Bounding  in  her 
ears.     Snrelj  aho  heani   it    now  I 


How  strange  that  was,  that  feeling 
of  the  jia.'-t,  that  did  sometimes  so 
vividly  return  to  her  — only  in  little 
scenes  though— only  in  imo  or  two 
scenes — by  the  ^nrUn  wall,  near 
the  walnut-tree:  the  loaves  had 
fallen  with  that  peculiar  trickling 
f.iint  noise,  and  there  had  Iteen  a 
bird  that  sang  out  suddenly.  H-i 
harl  said,  '  My  own  for  ever  I'  and 
6he  had  said,  '  For  ever— your  true 
love  for  ever!'  She  had  Ix^n  so 
thin,  then;  how  she  had  longed  for 
])U'nty  of  gloves  and  a  new  bonnet  I 
Who  w.is  this  stranger— this  new 
man?  \Vliat  did  it  matter?  How 
would  it  l)f,  if  ho  came  liack  again  ? 
He  would  come  ba"k  suddenly — 
and  what  should  she  say  ?  It  was 
60  imfiO'-sible  to  realize,  that  her 
thougiits  changed  all  quickly— 'tea, 
yes,  please,  a  cup  of  tea.' 

There  was  a  clatter  of  teaspoons 
and  talking  between  the  tea-drinkers 
within  and  those  outside  the  win- 
dow. Frank  Fra.ser  came  and  knelt 
at  Georgie  Filmer"s  side,  in  lioiw  of 
a  wcu'd,  but  she  did  not  even  look 
at  him,  and  he  was  obliged  to  jirc- 
tend  he  was  petitioning  for  '  the  cup 
that  cheers.' 

'  He  shonld  have  only  one  lump,' 
Lady  Blanche  said,'Tudess  ho  in- 
Btantly  t(»ld  the  name  of  the  man 
in  grey.  Nolnxiy  could  tell  her  who 
he  was,— not  even  the  "  Court  Jour- 
nal,''and  she  was  djing  to  know.' 

'Ihe  '  Court  Journal  '  protested  he 
had  not  Ix^en  a^ked,  ami  Frank, 
springing  to  his  f(,'et,  said,  '  By  all 
means  Lady  Blanche  should  know; 
he  would  bring  him  to  be  iutroduoed 
in  form.' 

'  Why  do  yon  not  embrace  your 
kinsman,  Miss  Blake?'  Tom  Bertie 
a-«ked.  '  He  is  a  cousin  come  h  imc 
from  the  wars  ;  no  end  of  a  hero.' 

Mi.ss  Blake  was  at  some  jnins  to 
cxfilain,  that  though  she  was  related 
to  Frank,  yet  all  his  cousins  were 
not  her-;;  and  Fitzwigram  was 
struck  by  the  jnstness  of  her  argu- 
ment, and  related  a  ca.se  in  point, 
where  a  countess's  ^ister  had  l)een 
no  sort  of  relation  to  a  marchio- 
neass  stepmother. 

Frank  led  the  new  comer  up  by 
the  arm,  and  present(  d  him  as  '  Our 
W(!ll-l)elove<l  Simon  Fra«or,  colonel 
of  her  Majesty's IiegiaicDt,and 


Still  Unmarried. 


625 


our  most  trnsty  liinsman,  sweet 
lady, — candidate  for  tea  and  your 
favour.'  Lady  Blaise,  further,  was 
moUitied  l»y  the  courteous  explana- 
tion tlmt  Colonul  Frascr  gave  lier  of 
his  suddtn  and  unloo!v-ed-tbr  appear- 
ance. He  1 1 ;  id  V  en  1 1  u-ed  to  1 M  a  ke  sure 
for  a  welcome,  and  liad  wiitten  a  let- 
ter, that  would  arrive  that  evening, 
but  had  been  met  by  J'rauk  on  the 
hill-side,  as  he  was  making  his  way 
on  foot  to  Glen  Taliocli,  where  he 
had  purposed  awaiting  the  reply  to 
his  letter. 

After  he  had  spoken  to  Lady 
Blake,  and  the  introduction  of  the 
other  ladies  had  been  gone  through, 
there  occurred  a  little  pause  in  the 
talking;  and  suddenly  there  was  a 
crash  of  broken  glass,  and  the  mirror 
(a  small  oval  one  framed  in  curious 
ebony  carving,  over  the  mantel- 
piece) fell  to  the  ground  Happily, 
no  one  was  near  it,  and  only  itself 
was  injured  ;  but  the  violent  noise 
startled  and  discomposeii  every  one, 
and  after  the  first  shrieking  and  ex- 
claiming, came  the  wonder  how  it 
could  have  happened  ;  there  was  no 
apparent  cause. 

'  I  can  remember  that  glass  there 
as  long  as  I  can  remember  any- 
thing,' said  Frank,  with  much  re- 
gret, as  he  picked  up  the  fragments. 
'  Can't  you,  Simon  ':" 

'  Yes,'  said  Simon,  gravely.  '  It 
is  an  evil  omen  that  it  should  fall 
as  I  enter  the  house.  It  must  be 
an  omen.  It  is  a  ghostly,  horrible 
thing,  to  happen'  (the  ladies  all 
'  agreed).  '  And,  by-tl;e-by,  was  not 
the  ghost  room  just  above,  in  the 
tower  ?' 

'What  ghost  room?'  asked  Mi^-s 
Gort. 

'Oh!  didn't  she  know?  —  the 
"doom  chamber,"  that  had  never 
been  optned,  since — oh!  nobody 
knew  how  long  ago  -  that  never 
must  be  opened.  Jf  I  vvx-re  you  I 
would  open  it  at  once,  old  fellow— 
you  may  find  a  treasure,'  saM  Arthur 
Bertie.  But  his  proposition  brought 
such  a  chorus  of  horrified  remon- 
strance from  the  Blakts,  and  the 
General,  that  he  was  quite  over- 
powered. 

'  What  would  happen  if  you  did 
open  it?'  Julia  aske  I   at  length. 

'  Well,  thty  say  I  should  meet  my 


death,'  Frank  replied,  laughing  un- 
easily. 'Of  course  it  is  only  a  tra- 
dition; but  no  Fraser  has  dared  to 
open  it  yet.  I  dare  say  Simon  here 
would  not  ol>ject  to  my  tiying  ;  eh, 
Simon?  Give  you  a  chance,  old 
boy.' 

Colonel  Fraser  laughed,  but  would 
not  speak  about  it.  lie  said  he 
was  afraid  of  ghosts,  and  believed 
all  the  stories  he  had  ever  heard. 

Blanche  Ever.sley  went  out  again 
to  look  at  the  tower,  to  find  out 
the  window  of  the  '  doom  chamber,' 
as  they  called  it;  and  oddly  enough, 
the  moonlight,  just  risen  on  a  cloud, 
was  reflected  with  a  cold  grey  sheen 
on  the  narrow  pants  of  one  window 
in  the  tower. 

A  shudder  passed  through  the 
little  lady,  and  she  ran  Ivack  to  the 
boudoir,  declaring  she  had  seen  the 
ghost  itself.  Wliereupon  they  all 
sallied  out,  and  the  light  having 
disappeared,  great  jnystery  wns 
pronounced  upon  the  event,  and  it 
was  voted  highly  terrible  that  such 
a  room  should  exist  in  tl  e  vicinity 
of  a  tea-table  and  tea- drinking  Chris- 
tians. 

'  Georgie  looks  as  pale  as  pos- 
sible,' Blanche  declared  ;  '  and  she 
was  sure  hhe  must  be  pale  too.  Sup- 
pose they  were  all  to  go  and  dre;s 
now  ?' 

Ten  years  ago  Simon  Fraser  had 
been  quartered  at  Devon  port,  an 
ensign  with  broad  shoulders,  slim 
waist,  and  inflammable  heart.  A 
half- pay  captain  dwelt  in  a  certain 
villa  near  the  town,  veiy  poor,  and 
father  to  three  daughters,  of  whom 
the  youngest  was  beautiful,  slender, 
and  just  seventeen  Simon  met  the 
girls  at  garrison  balls,  and  fell  in 
love  with  this  beautiful  youngest. 
Every  dny  in  the  High  Street,  on 
Saturday  when  the  band  plajed, 
and  most  evenings  of  the  week,  in 
the  little  villa  garden,  Sjmon  was 
dawdling  beside  tiie  Miss  Fil- 
mers.  Georgie  made  him  mnifetees, 
and  book-marks;  he  gave  htr  new 
waltzes,  and  boxes  of  chocolate. 
They  were  well-born  folk,  hut 
poverty-stricken,  addicted  to  shifts 
and  pinches  unbecoming  their  po- 
sition, and  given  to  dyed  silks  and 
bad  gloves.  There  was  an  impul- 
sive confidence,  a  dreamy  budding 


)26 


5////  Unmarried. 


clmrm  in  the  girl,  ihnt  touched 
every  fibre  of  Simon  Fra<er's  heart; 
ami  she  toM  him  lio  wiis  iicr  '  only 
lovo  now  nnd  for  ever.' 

The  hiilf-piyituin  looked  up Ciistlo 
Frii'^er  in  '  iUirke,'  ami  the  cockles 
of  his  heart  were  warmed  by  its 
IfRends  of  its  wealtli  and  dignity. 
]Ic  made  just  one  little  mistake  — 
Simon's  father  being  second,  not 
eldest,  son  of  Sir  An  irew,  as  he,  the 
pft]i.i,  nssnred  himself.  The  eldest 
s.m,  in  fa^t,  married  some  years 
after  tlm  birth  of  his  nephew  Simon, 
and  had  died  shortly  after,  leaving 
Frank,  (mr  hero,  a  small  curly- 
hairel  fag  at  Charter  House,  at  the 
very  nioineiit  wlicn  Captain  Filiuer 
appro]iriatcd  his  inheritance  to  his 
cousin  Simon. 

The  regimen^,  was  ordered  to 
Tnlia.  Simon  asked, '  ]Might  he  not 
take  her  with  him?'  lie  oflcred  to 
exclianffc  and  st.iy  at  home— leave 
the  army  he  could  not,  ho  was  too 
jt  tor.  Of  the  secret  doubt  and  dis- 
may this  word  caused  ho  knew 
nothing.  Georpio  wept,  and  said 
'  it  was  very,  very  liard,  but  she 
would  bear  it  for  his  sake:  he  must 
go  to  India  and  in  a  year  ho  should 
claim  her.  No  need  to  try  an  1  soften 
papa's  heart— inexorable  l>apa;  let 
them  submit  an.l  he  true,  true,  true 
to  each  other.'  So  he  went ;  and  at 
first  she  wrote  every  day,  then  every 
week,  then  by  the  monthly  mail- 
not  much  in  the  letters— she  had  no 
time.  (Jrandiuamma  had  come, onit 
l)eing  fairy  goilmother,  had  taken 
Georgio  to  London.  Oh  I  if  only  he 
were  to  l>o  there !  She  had  new 
l>onnets  anil  lemon  coloured  gloves. 
Then  liondon  was  delightful— only 
she  did  not  half  enjoy  it  as  she 
might  have  done. 

'Heir  to  Castle  Fraser!'  said 
grmdmatama.  '  Gofxlness  gracious! 
he  was  only  a  second  son;  not  a 
larMiing  ;  half  a  dozen  brothers  and 
sisters ;  a  sub  ia  a  marcliing  regi- 
ment!' 

Georgie  held  her  peace,  wrote  her 
letters  still,  but  kept  her  eyes  nnd 
Li\TA  well  opdi  to  all  that  grand- 
mamma said  on  the  subject  of  mar- 
ketable matrimony. 

Grajid  mam  ma  wrote  to  Devon  port 
that  she  could  not  take  all  the  girls, 
but  she  would  keep  Georgie,  and 


should  marry  her  well,  she  had  every 
hope,  iM^foro  the  en<l  of  the  season. 

Somebody  went  out  to  India— a 
now  ai<le-de-.'amp  to  tlie  governor- 
general,  and  brought  all  the  gossip, 
photos  of  the  pretty  girls,  oji  '/ifs  of 
the  matches.  Georgie  had  a  letter 
from  her  Jiimn'r,  telling  her  he  felt 
ho  had  done  ill  to  leave  her  ex- 
posed to  the  temptations  and  trials 
of  London.  He  could,  besides,  not 
bear  life  without  her.  His  father 
liad  purchased  his  step,  and  he  was 
on  his  way  home  to  el  lim  her.  He 
should  be  with  her  almost  as  .soon 
as  his  letter.  Would  .she  write  one 
line,  to  ^lalta,  to  welcome  him  ? 

Georgie  received  the  letter  after 
breakfast.  She  was  going  to  a  Rich- 
mond pic-nic,  and  wanted  to  get  a 
new  bonnet  for  the  occasion :  she 
was  rcdi/i/  in  a  Imrry,  but  after  a 
moment's  deliberation  she  gave  up 
the  boimet,  and  .sat  down  to  answer. 
The  letter  was  jwsted  Ite  fore  twelve, 
and  i\IisR  Filmer  went  to  the  pic- 
nic, which  was  a  very  ]>lea.sant  one. 
Simon  Fraser  turned  very  jiale  when 
he  read  his  love's  letter  at  the  poste 
restante;  he  said  never  a  word,  but 
took  liis  pi.s.sago  back  to  India  in 
tho  vessel  that  sailed  that  ni;^ht,nnd 
he  rejoined  his  regiment  in  the  bot 
plains  at  once. 

Mi.ss  Filmer  wondered  whether 
the  next  mail  would  bring  her  let- 
ters ;  looked  up  and  down  the  street 
when  the  carriage  stop|>ed,  with  half 
an  ex]iect;ition  of  a  reproacliful  face. 
I5ut  her  mind  was  set  at  ea.so  by  tho 
list  of  pas.sciigers  to  IJombay,  and  •* 
she  knew  tliat  her  '  true  love  for 
ever'  had  taken  his  di.-missal  as  he 
ought. 

\Vhy  Georgio  did  not  marry  tho 
middle-aged  baronet,  tlie  small  vis- 
count, or  any  of  the  eligil)les,  as 
confidently  expected  by  grand- 
mamma, deponent  saith  not ;  she 
flow  too  high,  some  said,  and  she 
liked  llirting  Aft«ir  two  seasons 
grandmamma  had  the  bad  taste  to 
die.  The  Ijelgrave  Street  house  was 
shut  up. 

'  Famille  Filmer '  went  abroafl  en 
w)'/.vs(  to  some  small  German  court; 
there  was  a  story  afloat  about  a 
prince  of  some  sort,  a  Itu.ssian  S'»rac 
said,  others  gave  him  n  ])rincipality 
in  Nas.sau ;  peoi)le  shrug{;ed  their 


Still  Unmarried. 


627 


phoulders,  and  said  she  had  always 
been  the  greatest  flirt.  Georgie 
carae  l>ack  to  England  liandsomer 
than  ever  and  well  dressed  ;  money 
had  been  left  by  the  grandmamma, 
at  least  sufficient  for  good  gloves. 
In  summer  she  lived  with  a  married 
sister,  a  quiet  dowdy  M.P.'s  wife; 
in  autumn  and  winter  she  reigned 
at  watering  places  and  hunting  par- 
ties; she  had  jewels  on  hand  and 
wrist;  she  had  a  suite  of  young 
Life-guardsmen  in  the  fever  stage 
of  admiration,  and  she  had  lots  of 
dear  friends  ;  but  though  she  did  not 
look  five-and-twenty,  it  was  quite 
ten  years  since  she  was  seventeen, 
and  she  was  still  Georgie  Filuler. 
All  these  years  neither  by  word 
spoken  or  written  had  news  ever 
reached  her  of  Simon  Fraser;  the 
recollection  of  that  first  love  was  to 
her  memory  like  an  old-fashion 
plate.  Only  she  used  to  say  to  her- 
self, '  When  he  does  come  back,'  and 
brace  herself  as  if  for  an  encounter. 
He  Ii((d  coitie  back ;  she  had  met  his 
eye  and  touched  his  hand  again,  and 
had  seen  amf  known  by  instinct  that 
she  was  a  stranger,  and  less  than  a 
stranger,  to  him.  Did  he  even 
know  who  she  was?  sh ;  wondered. 
For  the  next  days  it  seemed  unlikely 
that  the  question  of  recognition 
should  be  solved,  so  completely  was 
his  manner  to  Miss  Filtner  devoid 
of  consciousness  of  their  past  posi- 
tion with  regard  to  each  other. 

Only  there  was  thus  much  of  sign 
that  in  place  of  the  attraction 
Georgie  exercised  on  every  other 
man  in  the  house,  she  met  with  an 
indiifereuce  from  him  that  verged 
on  discourtesy.  She  had  prepared 
sundry  speeches,  above  all,  sundry 
.feelings  for  this  meeting— in  case 
of  reproach  and  recrimination;  in 
case  of  infatuation  and  entreaty — 
preparations  entirely  needless,  as  it 
wouM  appear.  Had  he  also  pre- 
pared feelmgs?  Apparently  he  had 
none  at  ail,  and  on  her  mind,  accus- 
tomed to  look  on  men's  hearts  as  so 
miiny  note>;  on  which  her  fingers 
had  the  special  art  of  playing  what 
tunes  she  chose  for  tliem  to  dance 
to,  it  began  to  dawn  that  the  posi- 
tion was  chauge'l,  and  that  her 
heart  must  tread  a  measure  to  the 
tune  that  he  should  play.      This 


both  perplexed  and  amazed  Miss 
Filmcr. 

From  the  first  hour  of  Colonel 
Fraser's  arrival  the  whole  party  had 
voted  him  charming.  His  voice 
was  sympathetic,  he  had  good  teeth, 
keen,  rather  cold  eyes,  a  short  red 
moustache,  still  shorter  dark-brown 
hair,  broad  shoulders,  and  beautiful 
feet  and  hands. 

His  manner  was  perfect ;  he  was 
quiet  and  a  little  sarcastic,  which 
the  ladies  liked ;  the  men  thought 
him  a  wonderful  shot  and  a  tho- 
roughly good  fellow.  Lady  Blake 
was  quite  ejirise ;  she  wore  unwonted 
top- knots  and  clean  gloves  for  his 
benefit,  and  was  quite  tame  in  his 
presence. 

Blanche — fickle  fair  one  ! — medi- 
tated deposing  the  dear  Berties  from 
their  post,  and  electing  him  prime 
favourite;  he  would  be  nuch  a  big 
dog  to  lead  about,  only  query,  would 
he  follow  ? 

That  even  his  cousin  should  re- 
flect some  of  Franks  charms  was  to 
Lucy  Blake  matter  of  course,  and 
she  treated  him  with  according  com- 
placency. 

On  that  simple  damsel  Colonel 
Simon  bestowed  more  attention  and 
kindliness  than  on  the  other  ladies, 
from  a  quick  perception  of  the  state 
of  her  affections  and  their  probable 
fate,  and  a  consequent  chivalrous 
compassion. 

He  will  tell  Frank  all  about  it,  and 
adieu  to  Castle  Gloom,  adieu  to  my 
intrigues,  thought  Georgie,  and  she 
told  herself  so  with  a  certain  scornful 
indifference;  but  he  did  not,  and 
she  was  angry  because  he  cared  too 
little  to  tell. 

A  sort  of  impatience  so  possessed 
her  that  she  could  scarce  control  it. 
His  presence  stirred  in  her  an  emo- 
tion she  could  not  explain,  and  for 
which  she  found  no  vent. 

One  evening  they  went  out  on  the 
lawn  after  dinner — all  but  Simon 
Fraser.  Georgie  was  restless,  heard 
nothing  that  was  said,  snubbtd 
Frank,  pretended  she  was  catching 
cold,  and  went  in-doors  by  herself. 
Colonel  Fraser  was  writing  at  a 
little  table — she  went  up  to  him— 
they  were  alone  in  the  room,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  the  batik  of  Ids 
chair;  he  must  have  seen  the  agita- 


528 


Siill  Vnmarritd. 


tion  in  her  face.  He  looked  up  at 
her,  paid  f-tifHy,'  Am  I  in  your  way?' 
and  iiiado  a  iiiovtiuL'Ut  as  if  to  rise. 
Sbf  walked  away  troiii  liim  without 
a  woid.  A  knot  pitlitred  in  her 
throit,  somethm^  clutclitd  at  her 
heart  so  that  t-lie  could  not  breatiie, 
and  lier  liiuhs  sliook  so  tliat  sho  had 
to  sit  down.  Slie  could  have  uttered 
a 'oittercry,  but  she  was  quite  silent. 
He  p:ot  up,  fokled  the  note  ho  had 
written,  and  f-te]'i«d  out  of  the 
window  to  join  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

Thoy  used  to  danco  in  the  even- 
ing; the  nei^dil)Our.>dined;  Mrs.  John 
Gordon  pla^\ed  waltzes;  the  Fel- 
loweses  tent  their  girls :  one  night 
they  had  a  little  cotillion. 

'  Rose  or  butterfly  ?'  Frank  Fra.«er 
asked,  leading  Lady  Blanche  and 
Miss  Filmer  to  hi.s  cousin. 

'  Butterfly,'  said  Simon,  looking 
at  Lady  Blanche. 

She  laughed,  and  danced  off  witli 
Frank.  He  had  not  asked  Georgie 
to  dance  once,  as  yet ;  now  ho  merely 
took  one  turn  of  the  waltz,  and  then 
with  a  slight  bow  left  her  at  her 
seat. 

Georgie  met  the  austere  gaze  of 
Mi.ss  Lucy  as  she  stood  there. 

'Flirting  with  him  now!'  the 
young  lady  was  mentally  exclaim- 
ing. 

Georgie  smiled,  laughed,  and 
danced  i>cautifully  all  the  evening; 
but  she  felt  as  a  wild  animal  docs 
when  balked  of  its  spring 

On  Saturday  night  there  was  no 
dancing  ;  the  Fellowe-e.s  dined,  stu- 
pid people;  the  I'.erties,  bored  by 
stranger.'',  inveigled  Jack  Eversley 
and  Simon  into  the  billiard-room 
directly  after  dinner.  Blanche,  Ikj- 
reft  of  her  little  court,  Ix  came  un- 
sociable, and  announced  a  headache. 
Mr. ?'ellowes tried  hard  to keepa wake, 
ami  could  not.  Lady  lilake  talked 
solemnly  over  the  Hre— it  wa.s  very 
filftw.  Mrs.  Fellowes  had  brought 
n  niece  with  red  arms  and  a  wreath, 
to  whom  Frank  had  to  do  convtr.>-a- 
tion. 

Amongst  other  topics  the  doomed 
chamber  wa-s  nired  by  the  helpful 
Julia  Gort.  The  wreatluil  iiie'o 
evinced  curiosity  and  interest,  and 
a  discii.'^sion  ensuefl  on  su|Krstition, 
Ax.     Jliss  Blake  thought  supersti- 


tion unscriptural  and  wicked,  so  did 
Mi.-s  tiort,  but  she  would  give  any- 
thing to  see  what  would  liappiu  it 
the  door  wi^re  opened  ;  and  Georgie 
Filmer  asked  Frank  if  he  would 
really  scruple  to  open  it— really  and 
truly.  At  first  he  laughed  it  otf, 
and  tlun  confe.s.'^ed  he  should  not 
like  to  do  it.  Lady  Blake  joined  iu 
with  the  laudable  motive  of  snub- 
bing Mi.-s  Filmer,  and  the  delicate 
sarcasmof  that  \oung  lady  provoked 
the  worthy  woman  into  i)hrases  m- 
volved  and  emphatic  on  the  sui)ject. 
Diversion  was  liappily  effected  by  a 
palhetic  entreaty  from  the  General 
— the  [leacelul  General — Tor  some 
mu.sic,  and  as  Miss  Lucy  scred  one 
with  her  Meiidels.>^ohn,  Lady  Blake 
was  calmed,  and  Mrs.  Fellowes  re- 
marked that  of  all  m)sfi)rtunes  it 
was  the  greatest  wlien  a  man  who 
loved  music  married  a  woman  who 
was  not  a  musician,  an  aprojxis 
which  fitted  Mi.ss  Filmer  and  Frank, 
and  (piite  mollified  her  ladyship. 

Sunday  being  at  no  time  the  most 
propiticms  day  for  a  Highland  sh.oot- 
iiig  ])  irty,  it  chose  on  l^iat  ]iarticular 
Sui.daj*  to  rain  in  torrents;  out.-ide 
the  houfe  reigned  dnarine.ss  inde- 
scribable ;  inside  discordant  elcmeiits 
threatened  to  disturb  the  general 
harmony;  everylKnly's  temiK.r  more 
or  less  cris-ero.ss  that  morning.  In 
the  first  place,  every  one  was  late 
for  breakfast  except  Lady  Blake, 
who  revenged  her-elf  by  scolding 
her  daughter  ojieuly,  and  drawing 
moral  le.ss(>ns  out  of  unpunrtuality 
for  the  benefit  of  the  other  delin- 
quents. Jler  la<iyship  announced 
tliat  she  never  suffered  (ii.ijlliin;/  to 
prevent  her  going  to  church,  and 
when  no  one  took  up  the  intended 
gauntlet,  made  i)erfiueut  inciuirics 
of  the  other  Iiulies;  wcmdered  if 
Frank  drove  to  ]Jee  side,  or  walked 
to  the  parish  church.  Arthur  Bertie 
voted  Sunday  a  mistake  everywhere 
except  in  London.  One  could  go 
to  Maidenheail,  and  tliere  was  '  Bell's 
Life,'  his  brother  explained  to  Miss 
(jortVqiieryastoafavonritejireacher, 
and  Jack  Kgerton  suggested  they 
shoul  1  go  to  bed  again  till  diuner- 
timo. 

Not  only  did  it  rain,  but  to  make 
ImwI  worse,  it  pretended  to  clear  just 
in  time  to   jrovdke  a  iiossil)ility  of 


Still  Unmarried. 


529 


church- going,  but  too  late  for  tbo 
morning  service  at  the  English 
chapel  of  Dee  side. 

Lady  Blake  in  goloshes  and  water- 
proof cloak  came  to  beat  up  recruits 
for  the  Presbyterian  service,  and 
Lady  Blanche,  out  of  opposition, 
became  violently  High  Church.  The 
rain  came  on  again,  and  nobody  did 
go;  but  a  battle  of  churches  was 
waged  betweeu  the  two  ladies ;  the 
one  carrying  about  ostentatioiis 
little  books  that  she  did  not  read, 
with  dangling  crosses  and  crimson 
and  gold  ribbons  to  mark  special 
prayers,  and  the  other  piling  the 
table  with  commentaries  and  limp 
tracts,  and  pouncing  on  all  novels 
and  newspapers  to  bide  them. 

General  Fitzwigram,  trying  to 
trim  his  little  bark  between  the  two 
tides,  was  much  buffeted  by  both, 
Blanche  snubbed  him,  and  Lady 
Blake  compelled  him  to  attend  a 
private  and  impromptu  ceremony  in 
the  dining-room,  where  she  preached 
to  her  daughter.  Miss  Gort,  and  a 
few  of  the  servants. 

Before  luncheon,  when  the  ladies 
were  all  together  in  the  library,  the 
poor  man  further  put  his  foot  into 
it  by  asking,  cheerfully,  '  By-the- 
by,  how  had  the  discussion  ended 
last  night — that  romantic  colloquy 
over  the  haunted  chamber?  Which 
of  the  fair  ladies  had  gained  the 
day?  Was  Miss  Filmer's  behest  to 
be  obeyed,  or  did  Lady  Blake  reign 
paramount  over  their  host  ?' 

Lady  Blake  turned  a  piercing 
glance  on  the  company  in  general, 

'My  nephew  has  far  too  much 
sense  to  think  of  such  folly ;  he 
was  only  laughing  at  Miss  Filmer. 
The  room  will,  of  course,  not  be 
opened.' 

Georgie  Filmer  looked  up  at  Mr. 
Fitzwigram  and  smiled,  but  would 
not  be  provoked  into  answering. 

'  Are  you  superstitious,  Lady 
Blake?'  inquired  Miss  Gort,  inno- 
cently ;  '  do  yoii  dread  the  curse  ?' 

'No,'  emphatically  and  with  se- 
verity, 'I  am  not  superstitious;  I 
hold  all  superstition  to  be  mere 
weakness,  and  weakness  I  abhor,  as 
I  do  the  mere  desire  of  power  un- 
less for  a  great  and  good  end.' 

'Ah,  then  you  will  let  the  fair 
lady's  behest  be  done  ?'  the  '  Court 

VOL.  XI. — NO.  XLVI. 


Journal'  interrupted  in  his  most 
fascinating  manner. 

'  But  the  folly  of  granting  an  idle 
whim  is  a  different  thing,'  Lady 
Blake  continued,  sternly,  transfixing 
Mr,  Fitzwigram  with  her  eagle 
glance;  'and  Miss  Filmer,  even  if 
she  supposed  Mr.  Fraser  meant  to 
obey  her  behest'  (this  was  said  with 
a  delightful  emiihasis)  '  would  never 
think  of  asking  for  anything  so  ab- 
surd and  unreasonable.' 

A  dead  pause  followed  these 
words.  Lady  Blake  felt  herself 
monarch  of  all  she  surveyed.  The 
gong  for  lunch  sounded,  and  she 
rustled  with  dignity  into  the  dining- 
room, 

'  Miss  Filmer  eats  nothing,'  Jack 
Eversley  remarked,  and  it  was  quite 
true;  with  some  satisfaction  Lucy 
had  seen  that  her  rival  was  pale  and 
languid  all  day.  Well  might  she 
be  pale. 

Two  spirits  wfere  fighting  over 
her  soul,  and  she  had  lost  the  power, 
or  the  will,  to  bid  them  cease  and  be 
still.  Was  it  love,  indeed,  the  wild 
throbbing  that  shook  her,  the  doubt 
that  held  her  in  thrall  ? 

To  have  him,  to  give  up  all  for 
him,  one  moment — then— no,  no, 
not  give  up  the  wealth,  the  name ; 
she  sickened  at  the  thought  of 
poverty,  of  insignificance.  She  had 
only  the  world,  and  could  she  let  it 
slip? 

And  yet — to  lay  her  heart  in  his 
hand — a  hundred  times  she  had  said 
it  to  herself  during  tlie  past  night ; 
to  bid  him  hold  her,  take  her,  keep 
her — he  was  her  master,  already 
she  felt  it.  If^f— yes,  if,  after  all, 
the  doom  were  true— and  why  not  ? 
— if  the  room  were  opened,  and  it 
were  true — he  would  have  all— she 
need  not  lose  it,  an  evil,  evil  voice 
spoke  in  her  ear — why  should  she 
be  tempted,  she  was  tired  of  resist- 
ing and  losing.  That  he  had  ceased 
to  care  for  her,  that  only  his  com- 
plete indifference  prevented  his 
hating  or  despising  her,  she  never 
told  herself;  it  made  no  matter  to 
her  that  he  had  never  addressed 
one  word  to  her,  never  seemed  con- 
scious of  her  very  presence  since 
they  had  met  again.  She  was  not 
used  to  defeat,  she  did  not  even  con- 
template it. 

2  U 


530 


Still  Unmarrted. 


If  she  had  uo  appetite,  no  more 
liiul  Frank  ;  he  had  tlivined,  as  those 
do  who  lovo,  tliat  some  eloiul  Inul 
coiuo  Uftween  liis  lovo  and  liini, 
tluit  some  sulitle  iiithienee  wius  work- 
ing to  luT  (hsciuiet.  Uneasy,  half 
jealous,  he  wivs  ready  to  put  his 
neek  under  her  foot  if  she  would 
but  step  on  it. 

He  hovered  about  till  he  found  a 
cliair  close  to  her,  in  the  window  of 
the  boudoir,  and  while  her  eyes 
sought  the  tall  figure  that  jiaced  up 
and  ddwn  outside,  he  muruiuieil 
his  uidiappiness  at  her  evident 
avoidance  of  him.  '  Had  he  ottended 
her.'  She  turned  her  eyes  on  his ; 
he  (lid  not  read  that  wistful  look 
aright;  it  served  only  to  drown  his 
senses.  Pressing  his  foreheiul  with 
his  two  hot  hands  he  poured  forth 
foolish  words  from  his  very  heart, 
incoherent,  mad  words  of  love  and 
of  entreaty.  He  scarcely  knew  what 
be  said  or  whether  she  replied. 

'  It  is  only  the  fancy  of  the  mo- 
ment,' she  said,  slowly,  and  ia  a 
voice  that  sounded  strange  to  her- 
self. '  You  would  not  grant  nie  one 
boon,  one  little  thing,  if  I  were  to 
ask  it  of  you,  and  yet  \  ou  say  you 
could  <lio  for  nic.  Men  are  so,'  slie 
l)ursue.l,  dreamily,  not  heeding  his 
veli(!nn:nt  denial. 

'  They  woulii  love  us,  and  hold 
us  fully  paid  for  giving  our  whole 
selves  for  their  fancy.  To  test  the 
hold  on  their  love  one  has  but  to 
feign  a  caprice  and  it  is  enough  to 
shake  it.' 

'You  want  my  heart,  my  life,  all 
my  love.' 

Slie  turned  her  face  to  iiim,  and 
bis  colour  went  and  came  under  the 
wild  mystery  of  her  eyes.  Ilerliand 
(Iroj)ped  from  her  lap  and  her  fingers 
toucheil  iiis  jjalm. 

'Try  me,  try  me;  ask  anything 
you  like,'  ho  said,  vainly  trying  to 
control  liis  voice.  '  If  you  could 
guefs,  if  I  could  show  you  how  I 
•wouhl  give  my  life,  if  that  would 
win  your  love,  tell  me  if  by  any 
means  1  can  prove  my  words.' 

Siie  looked  another  moment  in 
his  face,  and  with  a  comjilefe  change 
of  tone  Niid,  '  Your  aunt  was  .so  irato 
tins  morning,  imagining  that  ycm 
would  listen  to  me  instta  i  of  to  what 
she   called   common   sense,   herself 


she  meant,  most  likely.  I  Ixjiieve 
she  fancied  I  meant  to  arrogate  to 
m\  self  undue  jiower  to  make  myself 
mistress.  We  had  beiii  talking 
aliout  tliat  doomed  chamber.  I  iKi- 
li(  ve  slie  was  quite  right,  though 
liAw  such  superstition  should  come 
under  the  name  of  common  sense  I 
liardly  know;  but  she  was  so  em- 
pliatic  and  fierce  that  it  almost  made 
me  believe  my  own  jiower.' 

'  So  you  are  mistress;  By  George, 
slie  is  past  bearing :  she  shall  never 
enter  the  house  again.  Did  she 
fancy  I  should  listen  to  lier  sooner 
than  to  you,  idiot  that  she  is?  If 
you  bid  me,  1  would  open  the  room 
against  the  will  of  twenty  such  as 
she!" 

'  Would  you  do  it  ?  I  can  see  her 
dismay.  That  would  l)e  a  proof  in- 
deed, if  you  would  do  such  a  thing 
at  my  request.' 

She  stojiped.  '  What  a  fool  I  am 
to  fancy  it !' 

'  If  you  wish  it  it  shall  bo  done; 
only  say,  say'— his  voice  shook  so 
that  he  could  scarcely  form  the 
words— 'tell  me,  if  it  is  done,  will 
you  give  me  the  answer  I  asked  tor. 
Shall  I  win  you?'  He  held  her 
hand  convulsively. 

'  I  may  fairly  say  yes,'  she  replied, 
'for  you  will  never  do  it.'  Frank 
rose ;  he  was  deailly  pale,  and  stum- 
bled, in  his  agitation,  half  falling  as 
ho  left  the  room. 

Outside,  in  the  misty  rain,  Simon 
Fraser  pacecl  up  and  down.  Georgia 
waited  till  Frank's  step  died  away 
in  the  i)as.'-age,  and  then  she  went 
into  the  hall,  opened  tiie  front  door, 
and  stood  there.  Colonel  Fraser 
had  turned  to  come  in ;  he  was 
close  to  her.  She  .'■tood  lialf  in 
half  out  of  the  doorway;  holding 
the  handle  in  her  left  hand,  she  put 
out  the  right  to  toucli  his  arm. 
Simon  ha<l  Uen  looking  straight  he- 
fore  him  as  he  walked,  and  when  ho 
perceived  who  stood  there,  no  change 
l)asscil  over  Iiis  expression.  Per- 
il ctly  coM  and  im|)assive  his  face 
was,  making  no  sign,  save  that  care- 
ful stej)  that  courtesy  demanded, 
lest  his  damp  plaid  should  eomo  in 
contact  with  her  dress. 

Imploringly  her  eye  sought  his; 
she  littered  liis  name  softly,  but  he 
did  not  licar,  and  when  she  turned 


Still  Unmarried. 


531 


to  follow  him  he  had  already  left 
the  hall. 

Georgie  went  to  her  own  room. 
'How  pale  I  am,'  going  up  to  the 
glass;  and  then  she  sat  before  it, 
gazing  at  herself,  till  she  lost  the 
consciousness  of  the  person  whose 
white  face  and  deep  dark  eyes  looked 
at  her  from  the  mirror. 

Slie  was  still  sitting  there  when  a 
voice  said  outside  the  door,  '  Dar- 
ling, are  you  there?'  and  some  one 
opened  gently  and  came  in. 

'  Blanche,  have  you  any  rouge  ?' 

'  Rouge,  dear  ?  yes  —  no  —  yes. 
Why  rouge,  dear?' 

'  I  am  so  awfully  haggard;  T  must 
do  something  to  make  myself  lovely.' 

'You  are  pale,'  Blanche  said,  in 
some  awe. 

'  Oh,  darling,  they  are  in  such  a 
state  of  mind  downstairs  about  that 
stupid  room,  you  know;  and  1 
thought  I'd  come  to  you,  as  you  are 
all  powerful,  to  see  if  you  would  say 
a  word  to  him,  darling.' 

'  Who  is  downstairs  and  what  is 
the  matter  ?'  Georgie  asked,  leaving 
the  toilet-table.  '  Blanche,  dear,  it's 
too  cold  for  you  in  here;  we  will  go 
to  your  room,  and  you  shall  rouge 
me.' 

'  Just  tell  me,  dear,  has  he  pro- 
posed ?' 

'  Yes,  Blanche,  the  deed  is  done.' 

*  Oh,  darling,  I'm  so  glad.'  Kiss- 
ing ensuerl,  and  then  the  little  cha- 
perone  said,  coaxingly,  '  Dear,  you 
will  tell  him  not  to  open  the  door, 
won't  you  ?  Think,  if  anything  hap- 
pened.' 

Georgie  replied  scornfully  that 
she  wondered  people  could  be  such 
geese  as  to  believe  in  ghosts ;  that 
being  now  the  person  most  inte- 
rested in  Frank's  well-being,  she 
hoped  she  might  be  trusted  not  to 
endanger  it  wilfully.  It  was  just 
like  Lady  Blake  to  believe  in  bogies, 
she  herself  being  one. .  '  On  the 
contrary,  my  dear,  I  have  told  him 
that  I  only  say  "yes"  if  it  is  opened. 
I  am  not  going  to  be  defeated  by 
Goody  Blake.  No ;  if  he  will  not  do 
so  small  a  thing  because  I  ask  it  I 
shoiild  not  feel  safe  for  my  future. 
I  despise  superstition,  and  I  hate 
being  thwarted,  so  he  is  to  choose 
between  the  bogie  and  me.' 

Lady  Blanche  then  basely  aban- 


doned the  cause  she  had  come  to 
plead,  and  vowed  it  would  be  charm- 
ing to  see  what  a  rage  Goody  would 
be  in  when  she  found  who  was  to 
gain  the  day,  and  Georgie  was  now 
in  no  need  of  rouge.  A  bright  flush 
succeeded  her  former  pallor.  Only 
Colonel  Fraser,  Lucy  Blake,  and 
Miss  Gort  down  stairs,  Blanche  re- 
ported ;  the  colonel  seemed  a  little 
touched  with  gentle  Lucy ;  rather  a 
good  thing  would  it  not  be  ?  Georgie 
must  patronise  the  chasten  amours 
of  the  future  cousins.  On  pretence 
of  letters  Georgie  left  her  fiiend  and 
went  down  stairs.  General  Fitz- 
wigram  was  doing  the  civil  thing  to 
Sunday  by  reading  a  book  of  reli- 
gious poetry,  and  quoting  aloud  the 
favourite  passages  of  a  dear,  departed, 
and  highly  evangelical  duchess,  Miss 
Gort  being  his  audience.  At  the 
piano  Lucy  Blake  sat  playing  the 
most  beautiful  of  Mozart's  masses. 
Colonel  Fraser,  his  chin  resting  on 
his  hands,  sat  near  her,  a  rapt  and 
silent  listener,  speaking  only  now 
and  then  to  ask  for  favourite  pieces 
of  music.  Georgie  stood  by  the 
window;  the  yellow  sky  faded  into 
pale  daffodil;  purple-grey  shadows 
stole,  into  the  room;  the  music 
rose  and  fell  in  measured  cadence ; 
the  stately  sweetness  of  Mozart 
suited  well  with  the  peaceful  even- 
ing time;  the  rain  had  cleared  off 
suddenly,  and  left  a  calm,  lovely 
stillness,  that  seemed  all  unconscious 
of  the  dreariness  that  but  now  had 
clouded  the  outer  world.  When 
the  gong  rang  noisily  outside  it  was 
as  if  a  spell  had  been  broken.  '  It  is 
too  late  now  to  go  back,'  she  said, 
half  aloud,  as  they  all  rose  and  took 
their  candles. 

■  When  Frank  Fraser  told  the  old 
butler,  Sandy,  that  he  wanted  to 
speak  to  the  carpenter — Laing  must 
come  up  with  his  tools ;  the  turret 
door  was  to  be  opened— Sandy  flatly 
refused  to  deliver  the  message :  his 
usual  respect  made  the  present  dis- 
courtesy more  marked.  *  It  were  no 
possible,'  the  old  man  said,  '  that 
he  should  go  against  the  Word,  and 
break  the  Sabbath-day.  And  as  re- 
garded the  door,  it  was  a  maist 
fuleish  thocht  to  remove  a  naeba's 
landmark,  and  tempt  the  Lord.' 

Of  course  his  master  said  he  was 


682 


Slill  Unmamed. 


not  poinp;  to  break  the  Sabbath 
(Frank  liad  clean  forpottoii  tliefaot), 
but  Lainp  must  come  and  pjxak  to 
him  all  the  same.  Sandy  had  ro- 
mnnstranees  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
but  his  master  left  him  without  an- 
otlier  word. 

The  resolve  to  o]>en  the  door  was 
known  throughout  the  house.  Frank 
liad  no  easy  time  of  it,  and  every- 
thing was  in  a  storm. 

His  aunt  (lashed  terrible  glances, 
and  evidently  portended  a  remon- 
strance. The  gentlemen  were  way- 
laid, and  compelled  to  have  private 
interviews,  which  had  no  result,  for 
who  could  interfere  with  Frank  in 
his  own  house  ? 

Lucy  was  tearful,  and  haunted 
tlie  8tairca.se,  manifestly  with  a  view 
to  adjuring  Frank.  Simon  Fniser 
she  did  stop,  and  her  woeful  voice 
and  white  face  touched  liim.  He 
said  she  need  not  be  in  such  fear. 
These  old  tales  were  superstitious. 
No  harm  would  come  to  Frank, 
Besides,  why  did  not  she  lay  her 
commands  on  him  ?  It  was  so  kind 
of  her  to  care.  He  turned  it  off  with 
a  pretty  speech,  a  little  <i<ihiiit<ri,' 
alMJut  the  impossibility  of  refusing 
her  requests.  ]5ut  she  had  no  oj)- 
portunity  of  making  one.  Frank 
was  not  to  he  spoken  to. 

Frank  was  flushed,  excited,  ready 
to  Ixi  defiant  if  occasion  should  olTur ; 
would  not  meet  the  tearful  gaze 
fixed  on  Inm ;  would  not  take  any 
notice  of  her  at  all.     Poor  Lucy ! 

Into  Julia  Gort's  kind  bosom  .she 
pourc<l  her  grief  after  dinner, 
whispering  mournfully  in  one 
corner.  Her  nK)ther,  twinkling 
sternly  in  countless  bugle.s,  read 
L^r.  Cumming'smost  projilietic  work 
in  the  mi<ldlc  of  the  room,  and 
I'.Ianche  sat  on  the  rug  and  had  pri- 
vate jokes  with  her  friend  the  cul- 
prit. 

The  culprit  wa.s  most  charming. 
She  drew  lier  little  chapcrone  into  a 
talk  half  mysterious,  wholly  ego- 
tistic, alnuit  her  own  atTairs;  hints 
of  repulsed  lovers,  batlhd  admirers, 
confidences  as  to  '  trials,'  and  small 
half  con fe-ssions. 

No  one  was  a  Inttor  listener  than 
Georgic.  Slie  had  heljiful  words, 
like  jtins,  to  fasten  tiio  disjointed 
ideoa  of  her  vague  little  companion. 


She  had  delicate  sarcasms  where- 
with to  ticket  the  'enemy,'  and  just 
sutlicient — not  too  much— apju'ecia- 
tion  of  the  '  objects.' 

A  good  nitifidiiiitr  iwwi^i  not  be  too 
sympathetic  in  admiration,  or  she 
dimini.shes  the  sen.se  of  monopoly 
-that  is  so  essential  to  happiness  in 
the  contider. 

The  group  at  the  fireplace  looked 
BO  cosy,  that  no  wonder  the  men, 
one  and  all,  came  to  join  them. 

'Snppose  we  all  sit  on  the  floor,' 
Frank  said;  and  so  they  did,  for  the 
most  ])art.  After  some  persuasion, 
the  sad  Lucy  and  her  friend  came 
too,  and  were  established  on  low 
chairs;  Lucy's  feelings  would  not 
allow  her  quite  to  sit  on  the  rug. 
Lady  Blake,  on  a  high  hard  chair, 
set  a  manifest  example  of  good  Sun- 
day behaviour  in  the  background. 

'  We  have  never  heard  the  story 
of  the  doom-chamber,  Frank,'  said 
Lady  Blanche;  'you  promised  we 
should.' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  let's  have  the  story,' 
the  Berties  and  Mr.  Fitzwigram 
voted  ;  '  by  all  means  the  story.' 

'  I  can't  tell  it,'  Frank  said.  'Simon 
.shall.  He's  A  i  at  telling  stories. 
Simon,  begin.'  Frank  nestled  quite 
close  to  the  comer  where  ( leorgie  sat, 
but  she  leant  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
and  took  no  notice  of  him. 

'  Now  Colonel  Fraser,  do  begin,* 
siiid  Lady  Blanche. 

She  liad  forgotten  her  gloomy  and 
prophetic  views,  and  was  disposed 
now  to  patronise  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding. 

'  You  shall  tell  it  yourself,  I^ady 
Blanche,'  he  said,  'and  we  will  all 
Bit  spell-liound  to  hear  it.' 

'  No,  no ;  you  naust  l)egin.  We 
really  do  want  to  hear  it;  don't  we, 
everyl)ody  ?' 

Everybody  said  they  did. 

'Now,  begin.  Once  ui)on  a  time 
there  was  a  lady ' 

'Or — In  looking  over  some  old 
MSS.,  I  stumbled  upon ' 

'  Tliat's  the  proper  way  to  l)egin ; 
and  tell  plenty  of  <Ietails.' 

'  The  fact  is,  I  am  afraid  that  no 
old  MSS.  existe<l  for  me  to  stuml)lo 
on;  but  all  I  know  of  the  story  I 
lieard  from  an  old  neighlnjur  of 
ours,  a  Mr.  Gordon,  a  great  poker 
into  family  history,  and  who  know 


Still  Unmarried. 


533 


most  of  the  stories  'current  in  clays 
of  old.  I  dare  say  Frank  heard  him 
tell  it,  too.  Well,  if  not,  so  much 
the  better ;  I  shall  not  be  brought  to 
book  if  I  make  mistakes.  I  will  in- 
vent as  many  details  as  Lady  Blanche 
pleases ;  but  I  was  told  the  story 
very  long  ago,  and  I  forget  all  but 
the  main  facts. 

*  Moreover,  I  forget  the  dates  and 
names ;  but,  anyhow,  it  happened  a 
long  time  ago. 

'  You  must  know  that  Castle 
Gloom  came  into  the  family  some 
generations  ago.  It  was  not  always 
a  Fraser  possession ;  it  belonged  to 
a  certain  Grant  of  Gloom,  who,  I 
fancy,  was  not  a  very  reputable 
character.  This  Grant  had  a 
daughter— daughter  and  only  child. 

'  There  was  a  match  made  be- 
tween her  and  a  Fraser,  nephew  to 
the  then  Lord  Lovat.  This  Fraser 
seems  not  to  have  been  a  bad  fellow, 
but  the  lady  did  not  care  for  him ; 
in  fact,  she  had  a  lover  of  her  own — 
a  cousin,  who  ought,  or  fancied  he 
ought,  to  have  had  the  property— 
a  most  particular  blackguard.' 

'  Can't  you  tell  us  what  she  was 
like  ?'  interrupted  Lady  Blanche. 

*  She  had  the  new  colour  of  hair, 
all  frizzly,  you  know;  a  low  fore-" 
head,  and  no  crinoline,'  Arthur 
Bertie  explained. 

'  They  were  married,'  Simon  went 
on— 'Fraser  of  Lovat  and  Miss 
Grant.  The  cousin  was  a  constant 
guest.  He  and  Fraser  used  to  play, 
and  play  high,  the  fond  wife  looking 
over  her  husband's  hand,  no  doubt, 
and  the  cousin  winning  always. 
They  used  to  sit  in  the  room  in  the 
tower,  which  was  my  lady's  boudoir. 
Fraser  seems  to  have  lost  more  and 
more.  His  wife  urged  him  to  throw 
yet  higher  stakes,  and  win  it  all 
back.  One  night  he  staked  the 
castle  and  lands,  and  lost  all.  He 
left  the  room.  His  wife  came  up  to 
Grant,  and  bade  him  hold  to  the 
last  part  of  their  bargain,  to  do  for 
Fraser  with  a  quick  draught,  and 
fly  with  her.  He  laughed  in  her 
face,  and  asked  what  for  he  should 
tangle  himself  with  a  wild  wife 
when  he  had  got  the  house  and 
lands.    Let  her  bide  by  her  man. 

She  was  furious,  and  struck  him 
with  a  dagger.   Fraser  came  in  as  he 


fell.  She  denounced  him  as  a  traitor 
and  false  loon,  and  bade  her  husband 
despatch  him,  and  Grant  died  curs- 
ing them,  and  cursing  the  room  in 
which  they  were,  and  the  thresh- 
hold  that  he  had  crossed  to  enter  it. 
IMen  were  lords  of  their  own  houses 
in  those  days.  No  one  seems  to 
have  asked  indiscreet  questions  as 
to  what  he  did  or  wherefore.  The 
room  was  shut  up  from  that  day, 
and  the  tradition  held  thenceforth 
that,  when  it  should  be  opened,  evil 
would  befall  the  Lord  of  Gloom. 

'  What  became  of  the  lady  is  not 
told.  One  can  fancy  the  menage 
not  being  the  pleasantest  in  the 
world,  my  own  belief  is  that  she 
went  mad.' 

There  was  a  horrified  pause.  Miss 
Gort  drew  a  long  breath  at  last  and 
said,  if  the  door  had  never  been 
opened  since,  they  would  be  sure  to 
find  all  sorts  of  funny  things  just  as 
they  were  left. 

'  By  George !  so  we  shall,'  said 
Arthur  Bertie ;  '  old  what's-his- 
name's  skeleton,  and  the  dagger  and 
all.' 

'These  old  families  have  often 
curious  stories,'  Mr.  Fitzwigram  re- 
marked. 'Ajiropos  to  dagger,  did 
you  ever  see  that  dagger  that  they 

show  at  Blakely,  the  Lord  B 's 

house    in    Wales?    Most    curious. 

Lady  B always  makes  me  tell 

the  story.  I  remember  one  day  her 
saying  to  the  duchess — her  sister, 
you  know — "  Now,  Frances,  Mr. 
Fitzwigram  shall  tell  you  that 
story."  To  be  sure,  what  a  charm- 
ing person  she  was.  Did  you  ever 
meet  her.  Lady  Blake?' 

'  No,'  said  Lady  Blake,  sternly.  She 
was  turning  over  in  her  mind  how  to 
comment  on  the  story  in  such  man- 
ner as  to  deliver  a  home  thrust  to 
the  culprit,  Miss  Filmer,  whom  she 
had  invested  with  all  the  qualities 
described  in  the  Lady  of  Gloom. 
Finding  no  speech  sufficiently  cut- 
ting, she  rose,  and  begged  Frank  to 
light  the  candles. 

'  We  are  going  to  stay  up,'  Lady 
Blanche  said,  looking  up  from  her 
lowly  seat  with  a  wicked  smile,  '  till 
Monday  morning  allows  us  to  open 
the  door.' 

'  I  conid  not  answer  to  my  con- 
science. Lady  Blanche,'  Lady  Blake 


534 


Still  Unmarried. 


rojiliol.  twitcliing  her  faco  into  a 
siuilo;  'I  rould  not  answer  to  my 
eonseienco  if  1  sanctioniil  such  a  pro- 
ceediu}^  by  my  jire.sencu.' 

'  Luey — Miss  (iort — my  dear,  shall 
we  go  now?  Those  whose  con- 
sciences allow  tlu'iu  will,  of  course, 
not  l>e  miidt d  l>y  my  ojMnion.' 

Frank  Kroiij^dit  the  eamlles  with  a 
sweet  smile,  and  hopes  that  they 
would  sltMj)  well. 

'  You  had  much  bettor  stay,  Miss 
Gort,'  Lady  Jilanche  called  out;  'it 
will  be  frrcat  fun.'  And  all  tho 
gentlemen  joined  in  chorus. 

'  Why  do  you  go  to  Ited?'  Colonel 
Fraser  said  to  Lucy  as  she  left  the 
room.  '  We  want  you  to  protect  us 
against  the  evil  spirit.  You  ought 
to  stay.' 

Lucy  had  not  a  word  to  say. 
What  woman  but  longs  to  see  a 
locked  door  unclosed  ?  and  it  is 
human  nature  to  hate  being  sent  to 
be<l. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  then. 

'  Y'ou  are  not  really  going  to  do  it, 
are  you?'  Jack  Eversley  said,  (|uietly, 
when  the  Blakes  had  gone. 

lie  had  made  no  comment  before; 
and  when  Jack  spoke  it  was  gene- 
rally to  the  purpose. 

Jilaiiche  looked  guilty  and  fright- 
ened ;  the  men  exchanged  glances. 
Frank  looked  at  Mi>s  Fihucr,  on 
whose  face  a  smile,  half  scornful, 
half  amused,  was  j)liiying. 

'  To  1x3  sure  1  am,'  Frank  rej)lied, 
lightly  ;  '  I  have  made  my  will,  and 
paid  my  tailor's  bill,  and  it's  all 
right.' 

The  lugubrious  face  of  Sandy  ap- 
peared at  the  door.  'The  carpenter 
is  here,  sir.' 

'Jliura!'  exclaimed  Blanche, 
catching  her  friend's  arm  ;  'now  for 
the  skeleton.  IIoo!  hoo!  Doesn't 
it  make  you  cree]),  Georgio?  Come 
ami  get  ii  shawl.' 

Frank  hel]>ed  to  put  on  the 
shawls. 

'  I  sliall  hold  you  to  your  word,' 
lie  ^aid  tp  Georgie  ;  and  sunuthing 
in  liis  tone  gave  her  a  feeling  of 
half- respect  half-fear,  that  was  cjuite 
new. 

'  What  if  he  makes  me  love  bim 
after  all  ?'  she  said  to  herself. 

It  was  a  low  narrow  dour  i>laced 
in  a  little  recess  in  tho  wall,  half  way 


up  a  stone  staircase  that  lo  1  up  to 
the  tower,  and  from  which  branched, 
a  little  way  above  the  closed  door, 
the  main  pa.s.sage  for  the  ludroom, 
to  which  the  principal  staircase  also 
led  at  the  other  end.  Tin  re  was 
a  narrow  step  or  ledge  bet wt  tii  the 
door  and  the  stair,  and  on  this  ledge, 
Laing,  tho  carpenter,  knelt  with  liis 
screws  and  saw,  to  undo  the  nails 
and  tho  i)laster  that  held  the  doot'; 
there  was  no  handle  at  all,  and  tho 
keyhole  had  been  st()])i)ed  u]).  The 
others  sat  or  stood  above  and  below 
the  doorway  on  the  stair ;  the  maids 
crept  from  the  i)assage,  and  tho 
man-servants  from  In  low,  to  look 
on.  Julia  Gort  joined  them,  having 
esca])ed  from  the  indignation  of 
Lady  IJlake  and  the  tears  of  Ijucy. 
Small  jokes  and  whisiM  rs  went  on 
while  the  carpenter  worked  ;  no  one 
seemed  to  like  to  speak  out  loud. 
At  last  he  turned  round  and  signi- 
fied that  a  push  would  o])en  the 
door  — all  obstacles  were  rcuioved. 

Frank's  voice  sounded  loud  and 
hollow  in  the  vaulted  stone  stair- 
way, as  he  called  for  tho  lamp,  and 
in  breathless  silence  the  group  be- 
hind him  waited  while  he  and  Simon 
leant  their  .shouldirs  again-t  the 
wood-work:  there  was  a  low  crunch- 
ing of  the  plaster,  and  then  the  door 
fell  backward  with  a  didl  thud. 
Every  head  was  bent  forward;  the 
tw()Fra.sers  and  the  carjK  uter  stood 
in  tho  doorway,  when  a  slight  figure 
like  a  ghost  in  its  white  drapery  au'l 
])ale  face  jmssed  between  them  and 
ste])ped  tirst  into  the  '  doom  cham- 
ber.'    It  was  Lucy  IJlake. 

'  Take  care,'  Colonel  Fraser  ex- 
claimed," catching  at  her  sleeve, 
'  there  may  be  nidls  and  boles.' 

His  voice  broke  tho  spell  that  lay 
on  all  the  otlu  rs.  Lucy,  trembling 
and  overwrought,  was  unnoticed; 
she  scarcely  knew  that  Siihon  Fra-ser 
drew  her  gently  back,  an  1  made  her 
sit  down  on  the  stair  outside. 

Poor  Lucy!  Frank  did  not  even 
see  what  she  had  meant  to  ri.sk  for 
his  sake.  He  had  turned  a*  soon  as 
he  had  ]iut  his  foot  within  the  room, 
and  read  his  answer  in  Georgie's 
eyes. 

There  was  no  skeleton,  but  there 
was  dust — dust  and  stifled,  de^ath- 
like  cloBcnesB.    A  worn-out  colour- 


Still  Unmarried. 


631 


less  rug,  in  the  middle  of  the  worm- 
eaten  boards,  a  rickctty  table  with 
curved  legs  leaning  against  the  wall, 
a  few  chairs  gnawed  and  rotten,  a 
black  wooden  seat  under  the  win- 
dow and  round  one  side  of  the  room, 
cobwebs  everywhere,  a  faded  bit  of 
tartan  hanging  by  one  nail  at  the 
side  of  the  narrow,  dimmed  wilidow, 
a  cupboard-door  half  open — was  all 
they  sav/ ;  a  dead  mouse  lay  in  the 
empty  cupboard ;  but  on  lifting  the 
fallen  door  they  found  a  pistol  of 
clumsy  sliapi!  but  curiously-wrought 
inlaid  hand!;'  and  tied  to  it  a  knot 
of  riblxm,  stili  und  stained— so  stiff 
that  it  brokd  into  little  bits,  like 
wood,  at  the  iirst  touch. 

After  the  first  moment  every  one 
had  crowded  into  the  room.  There 
were  exclamations  of  disappoint- 
ment— no  skeleton,  no  glove,  no  torn 
letter,  no  ghost  nor  trace  of  ghost — 
only  the  most  abominable  smell  of 
dead  mouse — of  dust-dom.  After 
due  poking  about  and  much  laugh- 
ter, they  all  went  down  stairs,  and 
drank  to  Frank's  health. 

Lucy  went  to  her  room  and  cried 
bitterly.  Her  mother  came  in  to 
hear  all  about  it. 

*  He  is  safe,  quite  safe !  But,  di ! 
mamma,  I  saw  him  speak  to  ner 
afterwards ;  and  it  is  all  settled — I 
know  it.  Oh !  Frank,  Frank— she 
is  not  worthy  of  him — she  does  not 
care  for  him!  I  saw  his  face  while 
he  spoke  to  her.  When  they  all 
went  down  again  he  and  she  went 
away  into  the  hall,  and  then  he  came 
in,  and  took  Lady  Blanche's  hands, 
and  I  heard  him  thanking  her  so  for 
something,  and  saying  he  was  the 
happiest  fool  in  England ;  and  she 
called  her  husband,  and  they  both 
shook  hands  with  him ;  and  she 
said  she  had  been  so  hoping  and 
l^ra}  ing  for  it,  and  she  was  so  glad 
'■  for  you  both,"  she  said.  I  came 
away  then — I  could  not  stay.  Oh  ! 
mamma,  mamma,  if  cmly  she  were 
good  and  nice,  I  should  not  mind  so 
much !'  And  Lucy  went  to  bed,  and 
was  very  miserable. 

Save  for  dust  and  dirt  on  the 
stairs,  no  sign  made  itself  evident 
that  the  'doom  chamber'  had  been 
opened,  and  the  fate  of  the  Erasers 
detied.  At  breakfast  Frank  Wcrs  in 
wild  spirits ;  so  was  Lady  Blanche. 


(leorgie  did  not  come  down  till  late. 
When  she  came  in  she  Wiis  quite 
beautiful  in  a  white  gown  with 
peach-coloured  ribbon  at  her  throat 
and  tying  her  hair.  She  blushed 
when  the  Berties  and  Jack  I^^versley 
shook  hands  warmly  with  her,  and 
she  squeezed  Blanche's  hand,  and 
smiled  at  the  Blakes,  with  a  smile 
that  ought  to  have  disarmed  them. 
Frank  follow'ed  her  after  breakfast, 
and  she  let  him  walk  with  her  under 
the  great  lime  trees,  where  he  would 
have  knelt  down  and  kissed  her  foot- 
prints on  the  moss,  had  she  not  given 
her  hand  to  be  kissed  instead.  He 
might  tell  every  one — he  might  do  all 
he  pleased,  now,  she  said ;  and  he  be- 
came so  wildly  happy  that  she  told 
him,  laughing,  he  was  to  remember 
the  sun  had  not  gone  down  on  the 
day  yet  since  he  had  defied  the  curse, 
and  that  one  must  not  count  one's 
chickens  too  soon. 

When  the  gentlemen  started  to 
shoot,  Simon  Fraser  went  up  to  his 
cousin  and  asked  if  he  might  have 
the  dogcart  to  take  him  to  the  sta- 
tion. He  must  go  by  the  one  o'clock 
train. 

Frank,  greatly  surprised,  made 
remonstrance.  '  What  in  the  world 
made  him  go  ?  It  was  too  shabby  a 
visit.  Had  anything  occurred,  or 
was  he  only  in  joke?  Of  course  fil 
could  have  the  dogcart,  but  must  he 
go?' 

Simon  protested  he  had  always 
meant  to  go  that  day ;  he  had  busi- 
ness— letters ;  in  short,  he  must  bid 
him  good-bye. 

The  manner  of  both  cousins  had 
a  shade  of  embarrassment— possibly 
unconscious  to  themselves,  and 
neither  looked  the  other  in  the  face 
as  he  spoke. 

'  I  will  not  go  with  these  fellows,' 
Frank  said.  '  They  shall  shoot  the 
bill,  and  meet  me  and  the  young 
ladies  at  the  White  Haugh  for 
luncheon.  I  will  stay  and  see  you 
off.' 

But  Colonel  Fraser  would  not 
hear  of  this ;  and,  after  a  few  more 
words  and  a  warm  grasp  of  the 
hand,  he  parted  from  his  cousin, 
promising  a  speedy  though  vague 
renewal  of  their  friendship.  Not  a 
word  of  Frank's  engagement ;  not  a 
sign  that  he  guessed,  as  he  did,  what 


,536 


Still  Unmarried. 


had  been  the  fruit  of  last  niglit's 
deed. 

From  the  window  Gcorgie  Filracr 
Faw  the  parting,  and  saw  Simon 
walk  hack  to  tlio  house  with  his 
wonted  easy  tivad  and  set  expres- 
sion. Ho  jKL'^scd  the  window  close, 
ami  saw  lur,  Init  without  any  sign 
of  recognition,  and  she  left  the  room 
so  JUS  to  meet  him  wiien  he  should 
enter  the  front  hall.  The  servants 
were  there  rearranging  the  plaids 
and  great-coats,  and  she  heard  him 
give  the  order  to  have  the  dogcart 
at  the  door  at  twelve ;  then  she  went 
back  to  the  lilirary,  and  remained 
aloiic  for  an  iiour  waiting  for  the 
next  move  in  the  game. 

Before  twelve  the  ladies  met  in 
the  hall,  equipped  for  the  walk  that 
they  had  planned  to  take  to  the 
White  Haugh  to  pic-nic  with  the 
sportsmen.  '  Was  Miss  Filmer  not 
ready  ?'  Nobody  knew.  Creaking 
boots  told  her  of  Lady  Blake's  ap- 
proach in  time.  Georgic  was  on  the 
eofa  witii  a  smelling-bottle  when  the 
library-door  opened. 

*  Oh !  here  she  i.i,  dear.  Are  you 
not  Weil  ?     Are  you  not  coming?' 

Mi.ss  Filmer  sniffed  delicately  at 
her  salts,  and  said  she  was  so  eorry 
— so  very.  Nobody  must  stop  with 
her. 

'  We  are  all  waiting,' Lady  Blake's 
voice  Fai<l  from  lK.-liind  the  door. 
'Perhaps  you  will  follow?' 

'  You  will  say  all  sorts  of  pretty 
things  for  me,  dmr  Miss  Gort,  I 
know  you  will.  I  really  have  such 
a  very  b,a  1  headache,  I  don't  think  I 
coidd  walk.  Tiianks  so  very  much 
— ten  thou.sand  thanks!  It  will  be 
better  ])risently  I  dure  say.' 

•She  wutrhed  willi  all  her  powers 
of  hearing,  till  she  know  they  must 
be  cjuite  gone,  and  then  ran  up  to 
her  room.  How  pale  she  Wivs — 
bow  olil  she  lo;)ke<l.  Bitterly  she 
turnal  from  the  gla-^s,  t\vi>to<l  a 
j<carf  round  her,  took  her  hat  and 
looked  again,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

They  wore  packing  the  dogcart. 
Colonel  Fraser  was  on  tho  KtejH. 
Georg'o  went  up  to  him,  and  .'^aid  — 

'  Will  you  walk  over  tho  lawn 
with  me?'  You  cnn  meet  the  dog- 
cart at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  I 
have  something  to  eay  to  you,'  she 


added  aloud,  so  that  in  courtesy  he 
should  be  obliged  not  to  refuse  her 
recpiest. 

Fraser  bowed  stifHy. 

'  Certainly  — if  you  wish  it.' 

lie  followed  her  down  the  steps, 
and  they  walked  across  tho  lawn 
togi'tli^jr. 

She  was  no  bad  actress  to  tread 
so  slowly  and  daintily  by  him,  for 
her  heart  was  beating,  as  it  seldom 
did,  with  her  fear,  distrust  of  her 
own  i)ower,  and  a  iirm  determination 
not  to  fail,  at  least  to  have  her  say, 
all  fighting  in  her. 

To  reach  the  lower  terrace  they 
had  to  go  down  a  rough  step  or  two, 
half  stone,  half  turf.  Neither  had 
spoken  till  then.  Georgie  stumbled, 
and  he  gave  her  his  liand  to  help 
her  in  regaining  firm  footing.  She 
stopped  for  one  moment,  holding  it, 
and  then,  as  they  walked  on,  said, 
gently,  '  Does  it  remind  you  of  old 
times?' — adding,  ahnost  under  her 
Ineath — '  as  it  reminds  nio  ;  or  have 
you  forgotten  ?' 

'  The  place  is  fo  little  altered,'  he 
replied,  in  an  unmoved  voice  ; 
'  everything  is  exactly  as  I  left  it, 
that,  save  for  missing  the  dear  old 
knight,  I  could  fancy  it  was  still  old 
tinie.s.' 

'  I  meant— but  you  are  a  man — 
you  can  forget  what  I  must  re- 
mend  »er  for  liiy  life.  All  these  days 
you  have  not  sjjoken  to  me  one 
word — n(jt  one  word.  I  am  a  fool, 
but  I  felt  I  must  speak  once  to  you 
again.' 

There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
and  then  he  said,  gravely, '  It  was 
younself  that  bade  mo  forget,  Mi.ss 
Filmer.  You  wrote  to  me,  so  that 
I  hail  no  alternative.  I  do  not 
quite  understand  what  it  is  that 
you  would  have  of  me  now.  It  was 
none  of  n)y  doing,  God  knows!'  Ho 
spoke  witli  calm  courtesy,  with  no 
trace  of  emoticm. 

Clasping  her  hands  together,  she 
spoke.  'Ah!  how  hard  you  are; 
how  hard.  Do  you  not  know  how 
it  was  with  nie,  so  young,  left  tlioro 
in  such  hands?  Were  tliey  my  own 
words,  do  you  think,  that  I  wrote? 
Do  you  suppose  it  was  my  doing? 
Look  at  all  these  yenrs,  how  I  have 
waited.  Should  I  bo  here  now  as  I 
am  if — if — .    Does  one  do  never  a 


Still  Unmarried. 


687 


deed  that  one  repents  ?  Do  you  not 
think  I  have  wei)t  and  wopt  over 
what  I  (lid — what  they  made  nic  do?' 

'  Are  you  not  now  engaged  to 
Frank — to  my  cousin?  What  can 
you  expect  me  to  say  to  you?' 

'Who  has  been  telling  evil  things 
of  me  ?  Who  has  said  that  to  you  ? 
Ah !  I  know  whose  doing  it  is/  she 
exclaimed,  liitterly. 

'Is  it  not  true?'  Colonel  Fraser 
asked,  in  his  ordinary  quiet  tone. 
'  He  at  any  rate  seems  to  believe  his 
dream.' 

Georgie  put  her  hand  to  her 
thi'oat,  and  drew  a  long,  sobbing 
breath.  '  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,' 
she  cried.  'I  was  so  tempted— to 
show  you  that  I  was  at  least  not 
unsought— I  was  in  despair  almost, 
seeing  you — seeing  the  one  love  I 
craved  withheld.  Can  you  not  un- 
derstand? Do  you  think  I  cared 
for  him :  do  you  think  I  could 
listen  to  his  voice  wliile  I  heard 
yours  ?  Did  you  think  it  was  mere 
caprice  that  made  me  bid  him  open 
that  door  ?'  She  stopped  again  for 
breath. 

He  shook  his  head.  'I  do  not 
know  how  to  answer  you.  Perhaps 
I  am  grown  hard  and  cold.  I  think 
not;  but  I  cannot  dig  up  again 
what  I  buried  so  deep  underground. 
You  were  WTong  to  do  it,'  he  said. 
'  I  would  have  been  true  and  tender 
to  you,  Georgie.  But  it  is  all  over 
now:  no  need  for  rej)roaches  and 
bitter  words.' 

'  You  are  hard — hard,'  she  re- 
peated. *  It  is  just  and  right ;  I 
must  submit.  But  tell  me  you 
forgive  me — tell  me. — Oh,  I  cannot 
bear  you  to  say  you  forgive  me; 
that  is  what  they  say  when  it  is  all 
over  :  it  is  heaping  turf  on  the 
grave.  What  am  I  to  do  with  my 
life  now.?  It  is  thrown  back  on  me. 
You  could  always  lead  me  with  a 
thread.'  She  passed  her  hand 
timidly  within  his  arm,  and  he  let 
it  lie  there. 

'How  fast  you  walk,*  she  said; 
'are  yoix  so  anxious  to  get  away, 
while  I  feel  as  if  it  were  my  last 
moment — as  if  I  could  not  let  it 
slip  ?' 

He  replied  hastily, '  No,  no ;  you 
must  not  think  I  want  to  get  away. 
1  wish  I  knew  what  to  say  to  you. 


I  do  not  wish  to  say  I  forgive  you  ; 
it  is  all  so  entirely  past  and  gone. 
I  would  have  yon  forget  it  and  be 
at  peace.  I  have  no  wish  but  for 
your  hapi^iness — for  your  entire 
hai)piiiess  and  good.  You  have  so 
much  in  your  hand  — '  He  hesitated 
a  little.  '  You  have  a  life  to  make 
or  mar.  If  it  were  so  indeed  tliat 
I  could  lead  you,  I  would  bid  you 
think  well  wliat  is  before  you.  I 
would  ask  you—'  he  stopped ;  and 
they  stood  opposite  each  other,  she 
with  claspcfi  hands  and  her  eyes  on 
the  ground. 

'  Why  not  let  this  be  the  turning 
in  your  life  ?'  he  said.  '  There  is 
great  good  before  you,  if  you  have 
the  will  for  it.' 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  could  not 
but  be  moved  with  her  exceeding 
beauty — the  wistful  tenderness  in 
her  large  eyes,  so  dark  and  soft  with 
unshed  tears. 

'I  know  you  will,'  he  said,  and 
took  her  hands  in  his,  and  held 
them. 

Georgie  looked  up  in  his  face. 

'  I  know  you  can  never  love  me,' 
she  said,  very  low ;  '  but  give  me 
one  kiss— it  is  the  last  time.' 

Something  in  her  look,  in  her 
tone,  moved  him  strangely.  Had 
he  been  hard  indeed — too  hard  ? 
She  stood  resting  a  moment,  and 
then,  as  the  flush  that  her  own 
words  had  called  to  her  face  faded 
into  paleness,  he  stooped  and  kissed 

her. 

*        *        *        * 

Towards  afternoon  the  day  clouded 
over.  A  grey  mist  hung  over  the 
hills,  and  gradually  descended  on 
the  valley.  The  birds  were  silent ; 
the  flowers  closed  their  petals,  as  if 
it  were  nightfall ;  yellow  leaves 
fluttered  to  the  ground  in  the  Lime- 
walk;  a  sudden  chill  and  silence 
filled  the  air  ;  and  the  di.stant  riish 
of  the  river  sounded  strangely  near 
and  diTll. 

About  four  o'clock  the  whole 
party  came  home.  The  gentlemen 
coiild  not  shoot  in  the  mist.  All 
were  quiet,  somewhat  cross,  and 
cold.  Nobody  was  in  the  boudoir 
when  they  entered. 

'  I  thought,'  the  General  said, '  we 
should  have  found  the  interesting 
couple  together  here.' 


538 


Slill  Unmnrricd. 


Tlic  firo  lia«i  pono  out:  I'.Iaiiclio 
.shiultlcivd.iiiitl  iXfliiinifil  jnovislily, 
at  the  cliilliiu'ss  of  tlieioom,'  Wlicro 
cui'lil  Frank  Ihj?'  A  small  ji)ko  was 
uiailo-  some  Ktiii)iiiity  about  not 
nectliiig  any  flume  l)iit  that  of  lovo 
to  kwp  /(///(  warm,  but  uolK)Jly 
Lmghetl.  Miss  Gort— who  bad 
rather  dcscrteil  her  fritiul  Liioy 
siuco  the  hist  night's  events  jiointed 
to  Gtorgie  Fihiier  as  future  Ludy 
Gloom  — now  came  in,  saying  .she 
hadUon  to  Miss  Filmer's  room, and 
liad  found  her  there  :  kIio  was 
coming  down  directly.  <•  She  had 
not  said  a  word  about  Fiank. 

The  footman  came  in  with  sticks, 
and  lit  the  tire;  tea  was  Itrought ; 
everything  became  briglit  and  cosy. 
Gcorgie  came  down,  with  brilliant, 
feverish  eyes,  and  a  red  flush  on 
each  cheek.  She  talked,  hxughed, 
made  tea;  and  when  at  la-st  Jack 
Eversleysaid, '  And  wliere  have  you 
bid  Frank  ?'  slie  looked  amazed, 
and  s^aid, '  Frank  !  was  he  not  with 
}on  ?     1  have  not  seen  him  !' 

Frank  bad  kit  them  at  the  White 
Haugh.  Frank  had  gone  back  as 
soon  as  ho  bad  found  she  wa.s  not 
with  the  other  hulies. 

They  all  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Mr.  Eversky  broke  llio  silence  by 
Faying  he  must  have  cojjie  in:  he 
must  have  fallen  askej)  in  his  room, 
and  went  up  to  look  tor  iiim. 

The  daylight,  dim  already,  died 
at  last  oltogi  ther :  no  rain  fell,  but 
the  airwiis  danij)  and  thick.  Frank 
did  not  come  homo:  bad  not  l)een 
seen.  lie  had  been  sliooting  cnjii- 
tally  all  the  morning ;  a  little 
nervous,  ptrliap.s,  but  in  excellent 
form  altogether — in  such  spirits 
l>oth  iKlore  limch,  and  at  lunch, 
that  they  ha  1  told  him  he  was 
'  F'ay.'  He  had  eaten  nothing,  but 
liad  dnmk  some  cliamijagne,  to 
return  thanks  for  his  lieidth  that 
bad  lK.'en  proposed,  lie  liad  thrown 
away  bis  gla-s,  and  bad  laughed  at 
the  shivering  of  the  kda-ss,  as  it  fell 
on  the  rocks,  and  tin  n  they  had 
sail!, '  Frank,  you  arc  "  Fay  !" '  Ho 
had  not  gone  away  at  once,  but 
after  drinking  the  champagne,  hail 
declared  ho  must  go  home  and 
cons<jlo  Miss  Vilmor  for  her  bea<l- 
ache;  and  be  had  set  olV  by  himsilf. 
Perhaps  the  mibt  had  uiado  him 


lose  his  way.  'Had  he  his  gnn?' 
one  asked.  Yes,  be  liad  his  gun. 
And  !\liss  Gort  said,  'Hont  you 
remember  we  iieard  him  slioot  just 
afterwards;  anil  you  said,  'Mv.  IJertio, 
that  Frank  was  having  a  private 
ch'issi'  of  his  own?' 

]\Iiss  ]ilake  was  frightfully  ]ia]e. 
Her  lips  Were  so  dry  and  i)arched, 
poor  child,  that  she  could  hardly 
form  her  words;  but  sIjo  managed 
to  say  to  Mr.  I'ertie,  'Something 
must  have  happened:  do  go  and 
look  for  him!' 

Of  course  she  had  but  given 
words  to  what  each  one  was  think- 
ing, but  thire  was  a  chorus  of 
declaratiim  that  nothing  could  have 
happened.  'It  was  the  mi^t;'  'he 
was  at  the  keeper's,' — anything  you 
please.  Hut  .lack  Eversley  got  up, 
and  left  tlie  room  quietly;  and  then 
the  IJeitios  went,  and  the  General 
foiuid  himself  as.sailed  by  all  the 
ladies,  and  obliged  to  invent  reasons 
for  his  nou-aj)i)earauce,  and  sootho 
their  fears.  Georgio  said  nothintr, 
and  sat  clo.so  to  tlie  tire,  holding 
Blanche's  haml,  while  the  little 
lady  declared  alternately  that  she 
was  dying  of  fright,  and  felt  quite 
faint,  and  that  he  would  walk  in, 
dressed  for  dinner  when  the  gong 
rung. 

liut  the  gong  did  not  ring,  and 
only  a  shutting  and  opening  of  the 
ball-door  was  heard  alter  some  half- 
hour  or  so's  nervous  listening. 

Gcorgie  got  up  ijuietly,  walked  to 
the  door  of  the  boudoir,  and  ojiening 
it,  lookeil  out  and  listened.  A  step 
was  coming  along  tlie  jias.sage,  and 
old  Sandy,  deadly  i)ale,  came  up  to 
her. 

'  What  is  it.  Sandy  ?'  asked  Miss 
Filmer,  steadily. 

He  only  moved  his  head,  and 
seemed  unable  to  speak  ;  she  ])U.shed 
him  aside,  and  went  down  the  pa.s- 
sjige  into  the  ball.  Hearing  her 
sjieak,  and  seeing  her  have  the 
room,  all  the  other  ladi(!S  had  a 
sense  of  feftr  and  coming  evil, 
Blanche  shrieked  and  rushed  after 
her.  Lucy  Blake  caught  hold  of 
her  mother,  and  shook  all  over,  and 
even  Miss  Gort  ran  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door.     The  General  followed  lax. 

All  wius  (hirk  and  <)uiet  in  the  hall. 
The  front  door  was  ajar,  and  Georgio 


Still  Unmarried. 


53» 


opened'it  and  stood  there  listening. 
The  dull  tramp  of  men's  feet  came 
nearer  and  nearer;  the  General  and 
botli  the  ladies  whispered  together 
ill  the  hall. 

'  Can  you  not  be  quiet  ?'  Georgie 
said,  turning  round  suddenly  on 
them.  Then  she  made  a  step  out 
on  to  the  gravel,  and  met  thoj^e 
whose  steps  were  now  close  to  her. 
A  hand  took  hers  in  the  darkness, 
and  Arthur  Bertie  said  '  You  had 
better  go  in/  and  led  her  into  the 
house.  '  You  had  better  go  in,'  he 
repeated  to  the  group  that  rushed 
up  to  him  with  eager  exclamations; 
and  struck  with  horror  at  they  knew 
not  what  dread,  they  all  retreated 
except  Georgie,  who  stood  back  in 
the  shadow  of  the  doorway. 

'  I  am  alone  now,'  she  said,  half 
aloud ; '  I  am  alone,  and  may  stand 
by  myself,'  and  yet  she  scarcely 
knew  what  she  meant  by  her  words. 
She  saw  them  carry  in  their  burden, 
and  lay  it  gently  down  on  the  great 
stone  slab  in  the  hall,  and  she  saw 
in  the  grey  pallor  of  the  faces  round 
her  what  had  happened.  Scarcely 
a  word  was  spoken,  but  when  four 
of  them  made  a  movement  to  take 
up  the  body  and  carry  it  elsewhere, 
she  came  up  and  said  '  Let  me  see 
him,'  and  they  fell  back  without  a 
w^ord  and  let  her  look. 

He  was  quite  dead,  with  the  ^tiff 
sweet  smile  of  death  fixed  on  his 
face. 

'  How  was  it  ?'  she  asked  of  the 
nearest  to  her.  The  man  shook  his 
head,  and  did  not  speak. 

'  His  gun  must  have  gone  off  and 
shot  him,'  Jack  Eversley  said,  in  a 
low  voice ;  '  his  foot  must  have 
slipped,  we  think.' 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  then  Georgie  turned 
away.  Arthur  Bertie  came  back 
from  the  boudoir,  and  found  her 
holding  on  to  the  balustrade  of  the 
staircase,  and  he  gave  her  his  arm 
to  help  her  i;p-stairs,  but  neither  of 
them  spoke  a  word  till  they  reached 
her  room ;  then  he  said,  '  Shall  I 
send  any  one  to  you  ?'  She  shook 
her  head,  and  he  added,  '  We  have 
telegraphed  for  Simon.' 

Georgie  had  been  quite  calm,  but 
as  he  said  the  last  words  a  convul- 
sive shudder  passed  through  her. 


and  puttmg  out  her  hands,  she 
would  have  fallen  if  ho  had  not 
caught  her,  and  rinping  for  her 
maitl  left  her  in  her  room. 

The  doom  had  fallen:  it  must 
have  been  just  twelve  hours  alter 
the  room  had  been  opened  that  poor 
Frank  had  met  his  death.  He  was 
lying  there  on  his  back  in  the 
heather,  not  far  from  wliere  he  had 
left  the  luncheon  party,  just  in  view 
of  the  castle  tower.  His  gun  lay 
near  him,  discharged,  and  the  shut 
had  gone  straight  to  the  heart,  and 
the  broken,  bruised  heather  above 
showed  where  he   had  missed  his 

footing,  and  stumbled. 

*         *         *         * 

Simon  Fraser  came  back.  The 
party  was  broken  up. 

The  party  that  had  met  in  such 
high  spirits  disj^ersed  in  grief  and 
horror. 

Simon  came  back,  and  with  Jack 
Eversley  looked  over  all  poor  Frank's 
papers. 

'  Will  you  give  her  this  ?'  he  said, 
after  glancing  at  a  half-folded  sheet 
of  note-paper  that  was  on  the  top  of 
the  desk. 

'  Why  not  give  it  yourself?' 

Fraser  shook  his  head. 

'  It  has  struck  me  more  than  once, 
Simon— perhaps  I  am  doing  her  in- 
justice— but  it  did  strike  me,  and 
does  so  still,  that  poor  Frank  was 
ill-advised  in  his  attachment  to  Miss 
Filmer.  That  is  not  what  I  meant 
to  say  when  I  began  my  sentence,' 
he  added,  as  his  companion  did  not 
reply.  '  Do  you  know  much  other  ? 
— I  think  you  do.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Simon,  quietly  ;  '  I 
Ifnew  her  some  years  ago  very  in- 
timately.' 

'  So  1  fancied.* 

Both  were  silent,  and  Eversley 
stood  with  the  folded  paj^er  irreso- 
lutely by  the  door. 

'  I  have  no  right  to  ask,'  he  said, 
presently,  and  then  paused  again. 

Colonel  Fraser  had  finished  his 
inspection  of  the  desk,  and  as  he 
locked  it  he  looked  in  his  com- 
panion's face,  and  said, '  I  suppose  I 
know  what  you  mean.  Georgiaua 
Filmer  is  the  last  woman  I  should 
think  of  asking  to  be  my  wife.  Do 
not  let  me  give  you  any  prejudice 
against  her ;  poor  girl !  she  needs  a 


510 


5////  Unmarried. 


fricrifl,  and  sho  1ms  lost  a  true  ono 
in  tliis  ])<)or  boy.' 

Tlio  jKipir  had  In^en  written  on 
the  SiiiKiay  nii^lit  wlien  Frank  hiul 
prouiisoil  tliat  the  do  >ni  olianiber 
slionld  l>o  unclosed.  He  luid  written 
it  evidently  jtist  after  leaving  Georgie 
in  the  boudoir,  ami  on  the  outsido 
vras  scrawled  '  If  I  die.' 

'  You  see  that  I  can  pivo  my  life 
for  your  smallest  wish/  he  had 
written.  '  I  have  only  ]iaiii  in  think- 
ing that  you  may  regret  what  you 
said;  do  not  regret;  do  not  dream 
Imt  that  I  love  you  too  much  not 
gladly  to  die,  only  grant  mo  one 
thing— kiss  me  before  they  shut  my 
collin.  I  shall  know  it.  Sometimes 
I  have  thought  you  did  not  care  for 
me  ;  I  love  you  so  intensely  tliat  I 
am  jealous ;  when  I  am  gone,  think 
of  me  with  affection.' 

The  paper  was  hastily  written, 
and  ha<^l  but  those  few  words,  and 
Georgie  read  them  with  a  blanched 
check,  but  with  a  slight  bitter  smile 
on  her  face. 

'  \\ill  you  take  me  to  the  room?' 
she  said  when  she  had  finished  read- 
ing it,  and  she  and  Evensley  went 
together,  and  he  stood  musing  sadly 
and  strangely  by  the  window  while 
she  touched  the  dead  lips  with  hers. 
Tiiere  was  a  Io(jk  of  hard  misery  on 
her  face  when  she  tunied  to  leave 
the  room,  and  Jack  Eversley  pitied 
her,  knowing,  as  he  did,  all  that 
nnglit  be  in  lier  mind.  He  took  her 
hand  wlnn  they  were  in  the  pas.sage, 
and  held  it  kindly  as  he  said, '  One 


has  many  a  bitter  les.son  to  learn  in 
this  lite,  Georgie,  but  it  is  no  use 
looking  back  on  evil  days.' 

She  made  no  reply,  but  a  sudden 
colour  came  over  her  face  ;  slic  JHjnt 
and  kissed  tlie  hand  that  held  hers, 
then  turned  into  her  own  room  and 
shut  her  door.  Lady  iSlanche  wept 
herself  into  (juite  a  little  illness  ;  she 
and  Jack  went  the  week  after  to 
Kelso,  and  she  told  every  one  at  the 
Caledonian  ball  that  her  charming 
black  and  white  dress  was  worn  for 
that  dear,  dear  Mr.  Fraser ;  and  when 
the  next  season  she  met  the  General, 
and  he  asked  her  where  was  her 
charming  and  most  interesting  friend 
]\Iiss  Filmer,  the  fair  lady  said,  '  Oh, 
Miss  Filmer!  really  it  was  the 
greatest  shame,  but  she  was  such  a 
bad  correspcmdent,  she  had  not  an- 
swered her  last  letter,  and  she  really 
did  not  now  know  where  she  was. 
Yes,  she  had  been  very  nice,  hadn't 
she  ?  and  so  handsome !' 

The  General  found  himself  un- 
ns\ially  popular  as  a  side  dish  that 
winter,  and  told  the  '.sad  story' 
with  remarkable  pathos  and  many 
annotations;  and  Mi.ss  Lucy,  who 
went  to  Pan  with  her  motlier  for 
change  of  scene,  marrietl  a  consump- 
tive young  clergyman  the  tnl  lowing 
sj)ring,  and  plays  her  '  Leider  ohne 
AVorte '  as  a  voluntary  on  the  har- 
moniiun  of  his  pretty  little  Lincoln- 
shire church  to  this  day. 

Simon  Fraser  left  the  army.  He 
is  still  luimarriecL 


# 


541 


BOATING  LIFE  AT  OXFORD. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

HOW  WINGFIELD   STEERED   THE   OXFOED  EIGHT   AND   BAXTER   ROWFD  'FIVE.' 


ON  the  morning  after  the  bump- 
supper  above  described  I  was 
loafing  round  the  Quadrangle,  not 
feeling  inclined,  after  the  excitement 
of  the  previous  evening,  to  do  any- 
thing particular,  when  I  met  Hallett 
walking  rapidly  from  the  direction 
of  the  College-gate,  and  looking  as 
if  he  were  on  some  rather  imi^ortant 
business. 

'  Oh,  IMaynard,'  he  said, '  have  you 
seen  Baxter  this  morning  ?  I  dare 
say  the  lazy  beggar's  in  bed.' 

'  Ob,  no,'  I  replied,  '  I  met  him 
just  now  going  to  breakfast  with 
Vere  on  a  red-herring  and  soda 
water.  He  said  he  smoked  a  little 
too  much  last  night,  and  a  red-her- 
ring and  tea,  with  soda-water  to 
follow,  always  set  him  up  better 
than  anything  else.' 

'  HallETT,'  shouted  a  voice,  which 
could  belong  to  none  but  Baxter; 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  soda- 
water  cork  hit  me  smartly  on  the 
shoulder.  We  looked  up  and  be- 
held Baxter  and  Vere,  leaning,  each 
with  his  elbows  resting  on  a  red 
cushion,  from  a  window  on  the  first 
floor  above  us. 

'  Oh,  you're  there,  are  you  ?'  said 
Hallett;  'I've  got  some  news  for 
you.' 

'  Come  up  here  and  tell  it,  then. 
Come  along,  Maynard ;  you  want 
some  soda-water  awftilly,  I  can  see.' 

Up  we  went  accordingly.  Vere 
prodxiced  some  more  tumblers  and 
soda-water,  which  we  proceeded  to 
uncork. 

'Well,  now,  old  man,'  inquired 
Baxter,  '  what's  up?' 

'  The  soda-water  for  one,'  put  in 
Vere,  as  the  cork  of  the  bottle  he 
held  flew  up  to  the  ceiling,  followed 
by  the  contents. 

'  Why,'  returned  Hallett,  with  a 
passing  smile  at  Vere's  little  joke, 
'  I've  just  been  strolling  round  the 
parks,  and  met  the  gallant  president 
of  the  0.  U.  B.  C*  He  said  he  was 
just  coming  to  speak  to  me  about 
*  Oxford  University  Boat  Club. 


you.  He  wants  to  try  you  in  the 
'Varsity  to-day  instead  of  Pnlteney.' 

'  By— Jove  !  you  don't  mean  that, 
old  fellow?' 

'  Yes ;  he  says  Pulteney's  no  more 
xise  than  a  cor23se :  tliey  were  loth 
to  give  him  up,  because  he's  a  big 
man  and  rows  in  fair  form ;  but 
they've  come  to  the  conclusion  at 
last  that  he  doesn't  pull  much  more 
than  the  weight  of  his  boots.' 

'  Ah,  Tip  told  me  the  same  thing 
after  he  steered  them  yesterday. 
Hang  it,  I  wish  I  hadn't  drunk  so 
much  soda-water ;  I  shall  be  as  weak 
as  a  baby  when  I  get  into  the  boat. 
Vere,  you  treacherous  old  serpent, 
it's  your  fault.  Here  I"ve  had  a 
chance  given  me  of  aquatic  distinc- 
tion, and  your  soda-water,  sir,  has 
robbed  me  of  the  golden  prospect.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Vere,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
contrition,  '  and  has  even  gone  so 
far  as  to  take  away  your  "  coi^pers."  ' 

'  Well,  I'm  going  off  to  grind,' 
said  Hallett ;  '  yoii'Il  be  down  at  the 
river  by  half-past  two,  Baxter  ?' 

'  All  right,  my  lad,  I'll  be  there, 
and  if  I  don't  pull  the  weight  of  my 
boots — double-soled  clumps,  mind — 
and  a  pound  or  two  over,  I'll  shoot 
myself  to  death  with  soda-water 
corks.' 

So  Baxter  rowed  'Five'  that  day, 
and  though  his  style  was  a  little 
rough,  and  the  debauch  of  the  night 
before  had,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, 'played  old  Harry  with  his 
internal  arrangements,'  Singleton, 
the  president,  saw  that,  when  the 
day  of  the  race  came,  the  new  '  Five' 
would  do  good  service  for  the  dark- 
blue.  The  Eight  had  been  already 
a  few  days  in  training,  but  it  still 
wanted  more  than  a  month  to  the 
race- day,  so  that  there  was  plenty 
of  time  for  minor  improvements  of 
style;  and,  as  Baxter  went  into  train- 
ing with  a  determination  to  do  all 
he  knew  for  his  'Varsity,  it  was  not 
long  before  his  '  feather'  came  down 
to  the  level  of  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
and  his  time  was  pronounced  right 


512 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


ns  clockwork;  and  wc  of  St.  An- 
tliony's  fdt  very  proud  of  our  man, 
OS  wo  watche<l  him  witli  his  great 
clicst  coming  down  between  liis 
knees  for  the  stroke,  and  going  back 
with  a  long  swing  like  a  slcdgc- 
liaininf^r.  For  myself.  I  know  that 
when  I  henrd  an  old  University  oar 
say  to  a  friend  on  the  bank,  'By 
Jove!  tliat  man  Five  does  more 
work  than  tlie  rest  of  the  boat  put 
together,'  I  walked  firmer  on  the 
ground  for  a  week,  and  felt  that  to 
l)c  a  St.  Anthony's  man  was  among 
the  highest  privileges  of  this  life. 

Tom  Percy,  a/ins  'T.  P.,'  (difis 
'  Tippy,'  I'liiis  '  Tip,'  bad,  as  I  men- 
tioned before,  steered  the  Oxford 
crew  of  the  previous  year;  and  as 
lie  ha<l  not  increased  more  than 
three  or  four  i)ounds  in  weight,  it 
was  a  matter  of  course  that  ho 
should  be  the  coxswain  for  this  year 
nl.-o.  One  Saturday,  when  the  Eight 
had  l)ecn  in  training  about  a  fort- 
night, Tip,  who  was  a  great  lover 
of  racipiets,  and  liked  to  test  the 
skill  of  every  freshman  who  knew 
anything  of  tlie  game,  invited  me 
to  p'ay  with  him.  ^Vhen  wc  had 
played  five  games,  four  of  which  I 
lost,  and  were  performing  ablutions 
after  the  exercise.  Tip  said  in  his 
sharp  way, '  Wliat  are  you  going  to 
do  now?  Comcaiid  ride:  the  Eight 
don't  want  me  this  afternoon,  they've 
got  old  Parkcs  to  steer  them:  it's 
the  last  lioliilay  I  shall  have,  tfx), 
for  they  go  into  the  racing-boiit  on 
Monday,  and  I  shall  Ik)  wanted 
every  day  then.  There,  no  humliug 
alKjut  grinding  for  smalls,'  ho  con- 
tinued, putting  on  his  coat  and 
hooking  his  arm  into  mine, 'we'll 
get  a  couple  of  nags  at  Joe  Tollitt's, 
(ind  ril  show  you  some  of  the  coun- 
try: he's  got  a  little  brown  mare 
that  suits  mo  to  a  hair.' 

Accordingly  after  lunch  to  .Too 
Tollitt's  wo  went.  Tij)  was  much 
cliagrined  to  find  that  the  little 
brown  niaro  wa.s  cmt ;  however,  there 
were  plenty  of  less  attractive  amnials 
to  pick  from,  ami  wo  were  soon 
mounted  on  two  of  those  rakish- 
loi iking,  stick-at-nothing  steeds  that 
Oxford  knows  so  well.  Tip's  nf)tion 
of  shosving  the  country  was  to  keep 
a.s  far  as  pos.sibIe  from  the  high 
roods  and  never  to  ride  f^r  more 


than  ten  minutes  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Ry  carrying  out  this  plan, 
what  with  interesting  fences  and 
exciting  gallops,  we  soon  lost  all 
count  of  time;  and  it  was  not  till 
Percy's  horse  had  refused  three 
fences  in  succession  that  wc  began 
to  think  of  returning. 

'I  say,'  said  Tip,  suddenly,  'it 
strikes  me  we  ought  to  be  getting 
back,  the  nags  have  had  enough :  I 
wonder  where  the  deuce  wc  are.' 

'  "  Oxford  six  miles,"  '  re])lietl  I, 
quoting  the  finger-post,  as  wo  came 
out  at  four  cross-roads. 

'  I  have  to  dine  with  the  Eight  at 
six,'  said  Tip,  'and  it's  a  quarter 
pa.st  five  now,  and  we  liave  to  take 
the  horses  back  and  dress:  touch 
your  mare  up  a  bit ;  we  must  quicken 
the  pace;  we  shall  be  awf\Uly  late 
as  it  is.' 

By  dint  of  constant  etimulus  wo 
managed  to  put  our  horses  along  at 
something  like  the  required  pace, 
and  were  Ix-ginning  to  think  we 
should  not  be  very  late  after  all, 
when,  coming  sharply  round  a 
corner,  Percy's  horse  stumbhd  and 
fell,  throwing  his  rider  as  heavily  as 
seven  stone  ten  can  fall,  into  the 
road.  By  pulling  my  mare  on  to 
her  Iiaunches  I  barely  avoided 
riding  over  him.  Tip's  horso  was 
np  directly;  perhaj)s  it  was  not  his 
first  adventure  of  tlio  kind  ;  but  not 
so  Tip.  IIo  lay  perfectly  still  on 
his  face  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  I 
thought  we  should  never  hear  our 
coxswain's  sharp  little  voice  again; 
but  he  came  to  directly,  and  tlien  I 
asked  him  if  he  was  much  hurt. 
'Cracked  my  arm,'  he  replied  ;  'got 
me  to  some  farm-house,  if  you  can, 
my  lad.'  Though  he  spoke  in  some- 
thing like  his  old  authoritative  tone, 
I  could  see  he  was  faint  with  pain. 
What  was  I  to  do?  It  would  not 
do  to  set  off  with  the  little  man  in 
my  arms  in  search  of  a  hos))itablo 
farmer,  leaving  the  two  horses  to 
their  own  devices;  .so  at  last  I  was 
fain  to  lay  Tip  with  his  saddh^  under 
him  against  the  bank  at  the  road- 
side, and  set  off  on  my  own  horse  to 
fetch  assistance.  I  was  not  long  in 
finding  a  couple  of  farm-laWjurers 
to  lielp  me,  and  between  us  wo 
brought  both  Percy  and  the  horses 
to  a  coujfortablc  homestead  in  the 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


643 


neighbourhood.  In  less  than  an 
ho\ir  we  had  found  a  surgeon  ;  the 
arm  was  set,  the  liead  bandaged  up, 
and  Tip  declared  liimself  to  be  '  as 
right  as  ninepence.'  '  Tliis  knocks 
my  steering  on  the  head,  though,' 
he  continued,  in  a  doleful  tone. 

'  Come,"  interposed  the  surgeon, 
'  you'll  have  the  goodness  to  go  to 
sleep,  sir,  and  don't  talk  about  steer- 
ing till  I've  steered  you  through 
this  little  business;  and,  Mr.  May- 
nard,  I'll  thank  you  to  be  off  and 
tell  the  story  to  your  friends  at  St. 
Anthony's.' 

It  was  past  eight  when  I  reached 
the  College.  I  went  first  to  Baxter's 
rooms,  and  found  him  just  returned 
from  dining  with  the  Eight,  and 
lighting  his  lamp  in  preparation  for 
the  severest  of  grinds. 

'  I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,' 
said  I. 

'  Oh,  no,  young  un,  come  in ;  I'm 
just  preparing  f^or  an  enlightened 
study  of  the  Ni comae hean  Ethics  by 
the  help  of  Mr.  Browne's  transla- 
tion; a  regular  Bnnvue  study,  in 
fact,  as  Vere  would  say ;  but  I'm 
not  in  harness  yet— coat  to  change, 
slippers,  and  general  derangement 
of  dress  to  come ;  so  sit  down :  take 
the  easy  chair.' 

'Thanks;  I  won't  stay  five  mi- 
nutes, but  I've  got  something  to 
tell  you.  I've  been  out  for  a  ride 
with  Percy.' 

'  And  got  spilt,  eli  ?'  said  Baxter. 
'  I  thought  by  your  look  there  was 
something  up.' 

'  No,  not  exactly,'  I  replied,  '  but 
Percy  has  come  rather  to  grief — 
broken  his  arm.' 

*  You  don't  mean  that ;  poor  dear 
little  Tip !     Where  is  he  now  ?' 

*  I've  left  him  in  good  hands  at  a 
farmer's  three  miles  off  on  the  Ban- 
bury road.  He  didn't  seem  to  care 
much,  excepting  that,  as  he  said,  it's 
all  up  with  his  steering  for  this  year.' 

*  Yes,  by  Jove  !'  exclaimed  Baxter, 
'  and  I  don't  know  where  the  'Varsity 
will  find  another  cox.  The  men 
who  steered  the  trial  Eights  are  no 
good ;  neither  of  them  knows  even 
how  to  keep  his  lines  taut,  much 
less  steer  on  a  broad  water  like  the 
Thames.  I  tell  you  what,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  our  little  Tom  Thumb, 
what's  his  name ?' 


'  Wingfield  ?'  said  I. 

'Yes,  to  be  sure,  Wingfield. 
Ever  since  that  little  ducking  he 
got  he's  steered  sj)kndicily.  I'll 
speak  to  Singleton  to-morrow,  and 
get  him  tried  at  any  rate.  Now, 
young  un,  I  think  I  must  ir(mble 
you  to  be  off,  for  it's  time  I  tar;k]«l 
the  venerable  Stagirito.  You'd 
better  let  Ilallett  know  all  about 
poor  Tip.' 

'  Yes;  I'll  go  to  him  at  once.' 

'Ah,  do.    Good-night.' 

'  Good-night.' 

Next  day  Wingfield  was  tried  as 
coxswain,  as  well  as  one  or  two 
others,  who  were  considered  likely 
men;  and  for  three  or  four  days  it 
was  not  settled  who  should  fill  the 
vacant  seat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat. 
Wingfield,  meantime,  was  fluttering 
between  exultation  at  having  steerei  1 
the  'Varsity  even  for  a  day,  and 
the  fear  lest  he  should  be  rejected 
after  all.  At  last,  after  steering  the 
Eight  over  the  long  course  one  day, 
he  said  to  me,  '  Tell  you  what, 
Maynard,  they  really  ought  to  have 
me  after  my  steering  to-day :  don't 
laugh  ;  I  tell  you  I  know  Tom  Percy 
couldn't  have  taken  them  better. 
What  are  you  grinning  at?  You 
old  duffer,  you  don't  know  good 
steering  when  you  see  it.  Here's 
Baxter ;  I'll  just  ask  him.  Now, 
Baxter,  wasn't  my  steering  first-rate 
to-day  ?' 

'  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  have 
been,'  returned  Baxter,  '  for  I've 
just  had  orders  to  tell  you  you're  to 
be  cox.  of  the  Eight.' 

'Hurrah!  I  lold  you  so,  May- 
nard. I  knew  I  steered  well. 
Hurrah !'  And  off  the  small  man 
went,  in  a  joyous  trot,  that  expressed 
better  than  any  words  the  height  of 
his  glee  and  exultation. 

Having  lived  in  the  country  all 
my  life  till  I  came  to  St.  Anthony's, 
and  my  interest  in  the  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  race  never  having  gone 
beyond  betting  '3  to  2  in  tizzies ' 
with  my  chums  at  school,  I  had 
never  yet  had  the  luck  to  witness 
what  the  daily  papers  always  call 
'  the  struggle  for  the  blue  riband  of 
the  Thames.'  Now,  however,  I  felt 
that  to  see  The  Eace  was  one  of  the 
necessaries  of  hfe;  and  accordingly, 
I  availed  myself  of  a  general  iuvita- 


544 


Boailiiij  Life  at  Oxford. 


tion,  pivcn  mo  IdiiR  npo  by  ono  of 
my  unclt's,  to  spt'inl  tlio  woek  but 
one  before  l^astor  at  his  house  at 
Kensington. 

The  i:ij:lit  hnd  l>een  three  days 
on  tlic  Ii<jnilon  \v;itor  whm  I  reached 
town,  on  the  Moixliiy  before  the 
race.  Next  duy  1  run  down  to 
Putney  to  see  how  thinjijs  were 
poin^  on,  and  sjiw  our  boat  coruo 
in,  iifttT  rowing  the  whole  course. 
Tlare  was  a  httle  knot  of  ineu  wait- 
ing to  SCI'  tlio  crew  step  ashore — 
two  or  tliree  ncwspiipur  corre- 
spondents. University  men,  water- 
men, and  a  few  olhi'rs.  It  was 
curious  to  see  the  ditferent  ways 
the  men  had  of  getting  out  of  the 
boat.  Stroke  and  Bow  tried,  without 
inuoh  success,  to  look  as  if  a  four- 
mile  row  were  to  them  a  mere  baga- 
telle; 'Three'  and  '  Four.'  on  the 
other  hand,  sut  for  a  minute  or  two 
with  their  heads  sunk  down  to  their 
knees,  as  though  thoy  never  meant 
to  row  again,  and  then  rose  slowly, 
and  walked  off  with  ttie  air  of 
martyrs  who  felt  that  they  were 
sacrificing  tlieir  lives  i)y  inches  on 
the  altar  of  patriotism.  As  for 
Baxter,  he  hitched  up  his  trou.sers 
in  a  sulnlued  way,  and  tumbled  out 
anyhow,  with  two  or  three  puffs 
and  snorts,  and  without  the  least 
regard  for  appearances;  while  Wing- 
field  displayed  in  evt^ry  motioii  a 
deep  sense  of  his  dignity  atid  respon- 
sibility, as  Cosswain  of  the  Oxford 
Eifihtl 

'Hallo,  young 'un!*  exclaimed 
Baxter,  suddenly,  as  his  eye  fell 
upon  me, 'are  you  there?  Come  to 
see  your  friends  perform,  eh?' 

'  Ye.s,' said  I;  'how  do, you  get 
on?' 

'  All  right,  as  fur  as  I'm  con- 
cerne<l :  Three  and  Four  have  l>een 
rather  seedy  the  last  day  or  two; 
but  they'll  be  fit  enough  by  Satur- 
day.' 

'And  what  alwut  Cambridge?' 
I  inquired. 

'  r)h,  they  came  to  town  yester- 
day :  you'll  SCO  them  come  in 
directly;  they're  disgustingly  good 
this  year.  Tliey  say  tlicir  Stroke's 
a  man  of  undying  jilufk— so's  our 
man,  for  that  matter ;  hard  as  nails, 
and  the  coolest  oar  out.  It  will  Ik) 
a  ve-ry  tough  race,  you'll  see.' 


'  May  I  ask,  sir,  what  your  time 
was  to-day  ?'  said  one  of  the  gentle- 
men of  tlie  Pr.  ss,  addressing  Baxter, 
note-l)ook  in  hand. 

'  Fifteen  minutes  twenty  seconds, 
on  a  slack  tide,'  replied  iJaxter, 
promptly,  with  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible wink  at  me. 

'Indeed,  sir;  tliank  you.  And 
what  should  you  consider  to  be  the 
betting  now,  sir?' 

'  Three  to  one  on  Oxford.' 

'Inched,  sir;  thank  you;  much 
obliged,     (iood-day,  sir.' 

'  \Ve  sliall  see  all  that  in  one  of 
the  penny  pajx-rs  to-morrow  morn- 
ing,' said  Baxter  :  '  you  wouldn't 
think  he  could  take  all  tliat  in, 
would  you  ?  Just  shows  how  much 
those  !  fellows'  information  is  good 
for :  they  get  crammed  up  with 
some  startling  particulars  now  and 
then.' 

Wingfield,  who  had  been  super- 
intending, as  he  thought  him.self  in 
duty  bound,  the  removal  of  the 
boat  to  its  shelter  for  the  night,  now 
joined  us. 

'  IIow  do,  ]\Iaynard  ?'  he  said, 
with  a  lively  nod.  '  Baxter,  get 
away  and  wash  ;  don't  stand  there, 
catching  your  death  of  cold;  I'll 
tell  Jlaynard  all  alH)ut  everything. 
Now  go  on,  tliere's  a  good  fellow.' 

'All  right.  Tommy  ;  I'm  ot^.  By- 
by,  my  lad,'  to  me;  and  Baxter 
went  off  to  wa.sh,  as  he  was  bid.  It 
was  clear  that  a  change  had  taken 
place  in  the  relations  of  the  small 
to  the  big  man  :  tlie  former  had  l>e- 
comc — at  least  in  his  own  estima- 
tion— an  absolute  but  beiieticent 
ruler;  the  latter  a  sober-minded 
and  submissive  subject.  After  some 
conversation  with  Wingfield,  during 
which  he  offered  nie  a  ticket  for  the 
Umpire's  lK)at,  and  recommended 
me  to  go  to  Evans's  either  the  night 
before  or  the  night  after  the  race,  on 
account  of  the  splendid  row  there 
was  sure  to  he,  as  if  he  knew  all 
about  it  from  the  exi»eriencc  of  a 
lifetime,  we  parted,  breathing  de- 
vout wishes  tor  the  success  of  the 
dark-blue  colours  on  the  coming 
Saturday  morning. 

Friday  evening  found  me,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  at  Evans's, 
under  the  protection  of  Verc,  whom 
I  had  hapi)encd  to  meet  a  day  or 


Boating  Li/e  at  Oxford. 


5J5 


two  before  at  a  cigar-shop  in  tho 
Strand,  buying  what  he  called 
'  Herba  Nifotiiina,  vulgo  appellata 
Tobacco.'  Most  people  Iciow  what 
Evaus's  supper-rooms  are  like.  The 
room  being  filled  ahm  >st  entirely  with 
Oxford  aud  Cambridge  men,  all 
having  their  thoughts  fixed  on  the 
coming  race,  the  excitement  soon  ran 
high ;  and  when  a  well-known  singer 
came  forward  and  ga^-e  us  a  spirited 
stave,  appropriate  to  the  occasion, 
extolling  alternately  the  dark  and 
light  blue,  paity  enthusiasm  reached 
its  highest  pitcli.  I  was  greatly 
excited  myself,  and  sowasVere;  I 
shall  not,  therefore,  attempt  to 
describe  all  the  events  of  the- 
evening.  My  impression  is,  that  a 
great  deal  of  glass  was  smashed; 
that  several  appeals  were  made  by 
at  least  two  proprietors  (Vere  said 
there  was  only  one) ;  that  the 
waiters  had  a  very  bad  time  of  it 
altogether ;  and  that  my  hat,  when  I 
got  out  into  the  street  after  a  severe 
struggle,  had  assumed  the  contour 
of  the  '  shocking  bad '  article  which 
adorns  the  head  of  the  Irish  car- 
man. 

Fortunately  I  was  not  obliged  to 
rise  very  early  next  morning,  as  the 
race  was  to  start  a  little  before 
eleven,  and  I  had  not  far  to  go. 
Vere  had  engaged  a  horse  to  ride 
along  the  touing-path;  so  I  started 
by  myself,  got  on  board  the  steamer 
early,  and  maniged  to  secure  a  good 
pla"e  to  view  the  race. 

It  was  a  clear  sunshiny  day,  with 
a  light  breeze  blowing  rather  cool 
from  the  west,  and  the  attendance  of 
spectators,  both  on  land  and  water, 
was  enormous.  Not  to  mention  the 
steamers,  of  which  there  were  five 
or  six,  mostly  crammed  almost  to 
sinking  point,  the  river  from  Putney 
bridge  to  Simmons'  boat-house  was 
gay  with  small  craft  of  all  descrip- 
tions, cockney  crews  with  the  live- 
liest uniforms  and  the  worst  pos- 
sible styles  of  rowing,  pale  govern- 
ment clerks  adventuring  their  lives, 
and ,  still  worse,  their  unexceptionable 
straw  hats  in  skiifs  of  frail  con- 
struction, young  tradesmen  in  their 
shirt-sleeves  and  shiny  hats  toiling 
in  heavy  tubs  to  the  admiration  of 
their  sweethearts  in  the  stern.  Here 
and  tliere  the  bright  blue  of  the 

VOL.  XL  — NO.  LXVI. 


London  Rowing  Club  or  the  scarlet 
of  Kingston  might  bo  seen  in  a 
graceful  outiiggeil  four,  and  one 
boat,  that  I  particularly  noticed, 
was  rowed  by  four  young  ladies  in 
blue  jackets,  straw  hats,  aiid  white 
kid  gloves,  who  looked  very  charm- 
ing and  excited  much  adnjiration. 
The  banks  were  lively  too,  though 
not  so  gay  as  at  some  other  2).irts 
nearer  the  finish;  the  ladies  were 
not  so  numerous  here  or  so  well 
dressed,  but  the  bright  faces  of  tho 
crowd,  the  bits  of  colour  here  aod 
there  lighting  up  the  dark  masses, 
as  men  in  various  uniforms  moveil 
in  and  out  among  the  throng 
with  the  clear  sunlight  biighten- 
ing  up  the  whole,  gave  tilings  a 
cheery,  holiday  look,  that  calmed  to 
some  extent  the  intense  anxiety  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  about  the  issue 
of  the  coming  race.  I  cnuld  hear 
from  time  to  tinie  the  shouts  on  the 
bank,  as  we  dodged  about  trying  to 
get  into  our  pro)ier  po-ition.  '  Ox- 
ford or  Cambridge  colours  three- 
pence.'—' I'll  give  5  to  4  on  Oxford ; 
will  any  gentleman  tat;e  5  to  4?'— 
'  Boat,  sir  ?  Here  yon  are,  sir — take 
the  three  on  yer  for  'arf-a-crov/n.' — 
'  Want  to  see  the  start,  sir  ?— try  ray 
little  boat,  sir.' — '  IVill  any  gentle- 
man take  5  to  4  ?'  &c. 

The  two  boats  came  out  a  little 
after  the  aj^pointed  time,  looking 
very  stately  and  beautiful,  as  they 
paddled  quietly  to  tlieir  starting- 
rafts,  with  cheers  rising  to  greet 
them  on  all  sides  as  they  moved 
along.  While  the  usual  manoeuvring 
of  the  refractory  steamers  was  going 
on,  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  my  two 
friends  in  the  Oxford  boat.  Baxter 
looked  in  splendid  condition,  but,  as 
time  went  on,  and  the  start  was  still 
delayed,  he  grew  uncomfortable, 
gripping  his  oar  nervously,  hitching 
up  his  trousers,  and  settling  himseif 
on  his  thwart  in  a  way  that  showed 
he  was  far  from  easy  in  his  mind. 
Wingfiekl,  on  the  other  hand,  sat 
with  his  legs  tucked  in,  and  his 
hands  tightly  grasping  the  rudder- 
lines,  pale,  but  looking  as  though 
his  whole  soul  and  body  were  l.'ent 
up  to  one  object,  and  seeming  quite 
insensible  to  everything  beside.  At 
last  '  those  confounded  steamers  ' 
were  got  into  something  like  order,, 
2  N 


r,io 


Boaliit'j  Life  at  Oxford. 


cx'-ept  one  dinpy  lo^livcl  nion'^tor, 
wliicli  lay  iu  sliorc  some  (iistatu-o 
aiiead  of  the  rest,  nml  was  u'lcrl.v 
intractable.  Kudi  m;in  in  tlin  uvo 
crews  took  a  last  look  rouml,  sttticl 
liiinself  for  tlio  last  time  on  his 
tliwart,  strunp  liimsclf  up,  nnil  ( anio 
1  irwanl  ready  for  ihestntko:  the 
starter  pave  t'e  w.inl  a"d  lioth 
liiiats  siirang  off  t()}.'L'tl:er.  The  roar 
tliat  broke  foriii  at  once  fioni  all 
!.i  ics  telegraplied  far  up  the  ri\».r 
that  the  race  hud  begnn;  the  crowd 
on  the  bank  stood  still  for  a  nio- 
nunt,  and  then  began  to  move  in 
oni!  direction;  the  small  cr-d"r.  bc- 
e.ime  generally  excited;  the  st.  MnHivs 
groaned  and  snorted;  while,  aliovc 
all,  the  cries  of  'Cambrilu<!  I'  '  Ox- 
i'.irdl'  rose  into  the  air,  sometimes 
sliarp  and  clear,  so;netimts  blend- 
ing in  one  dnll  surging  roar.  And 
so  the  raco  swept  on,  the,  two  slender 
l>oats  with  their  long  gleaming  oars 
liirgingon  in  the  midst, and  holding 
tlieir  course  in  spite  or  heiving 
waters,  insolent  steamers,  and  c oi-k- 
ney  wherries.  For  the  first  dozen 
strokes  they  sceine  i  almo«;t  dead 
level,  then  Cambi-id^c,  rowing  the 
fiLster  stroke,  began  to  go  s'owly 
ahead.  '  Cambridge !'  '  Cambridire  !' 
was  the  cry,  answered  by  '  Now, 
Oxford  !'  '  '/ '  ford  !'  in  a  tone  of  re- 
monstrance, r.ut  our  stroke  diil 
not  (ju'cken,  and  still  the  light-blue 
kept  creeping  to  the  front.  At  the 
.Soap  work-i  they  were  ha!  fa  length 
ahead,  and  as  we  neare  1  Hammer- 
smith tjiey  hid  drawn  cUnu-. 

'I'll  give  6  to  4  on  Cimbridge,' 
fihouted  sonae  one  near  me. 

'  111  take  you,'  replied  a  voice  that 
I  knew  well.  I  lookid  roind  and 
saw,  f(;r  th.c  liist  time,  tha'  Ilallett 
was  standing  within  a  few  yards  of 
mc.  We  exilnnged  nods,  and  then 
turned  to,  and  shouted  'Oxforl!' 
^igoronsly.  'I'lten  I  saw  our  stmkc 
turn  his  Ileal  nn  I  t  dee  a  look  after 
Id-i  foe,  and  then  his  broad  ehe-st 
came  forward  in  qm'elccr  time,  antl 
Ins  oar  flashe*!  faster  over  the  water ; 
the  boat  seemed  to  sfait  into  Irish 
lite,  and  inch  by  inch  the  lost 
ground  was  made  up,  and,  ninid 
txulting  cries  of  'Oh!  well  rowed, 
Oxiord!'  our  boat  drew  up  level 
once  more. 

'  Will   you   do  that   6  to  4  over 


atrain,  sir?'  said  Ilallett  to  the  man 
near  him. 

'  Not  just  now,  sir,'  relumed  the 
other  in  a  rather  snrl.v  tone.  'Now 
Cand)ridL;e!'  Cam'-ridge  answered 
the  call  by  another  spurt,  ami  began 
once  more  to  sho;it  alu  a  I  amid  tre- 
mendons  cheering  But  onr  men 
weren  )t  tobedenie  l.spnrt  an-wered 
spurt,  and  each  boat  alteniitely 
headed  the  other,  while  the  loar.s 
and  yells  ami  even  shrieks  that 
ro.se  from  hind  and  water  swelled 
into  a  perfect  storm.  Tho  t)oat-i 
shot  Barnes  bridge  together;  less 
than  a  mile  and  the  race  would  Ih3 
over.  \Vl:ich  would  win?  It  was 
a  splendid  light,  but  the  anxiety 
was  almost  ])ast  lx!arinj.  At  last 
tlie  final  <  iTort  came.  The  steamers 
were  by  this  time  a  good  way  in 
the  rear,  but  through  a  glass  1 
could  see  that  the  <lavk-blue  was 
once  more  going  to  the  fore ;  they 
were  gaining  steadily  every  stroke; 
they  nuist  win. 

'Oxford  wins!'  shouted  Ilallett, 
now  close  beside  me,  'Oxford! — 
hurrah  !  Halloa!  look  there— what's 
that?  There's  a  barge  coining  right 
across  them— they'll  he  swamped! 
Why  the  devil  doesn't  Wingfield 
take  'em  round?  (^h,  d— n  it, 
they'll  lose  the  race!  There  they 
go— they  must  be— no,  by  Jove! 
they're  just  in  time— hurrah  !  it's 
all  right!  Oh  well  steered,  sir — 
judge!  it  beautifully— well  steered 
— Oxford  wins!' 

It  had  l)cen  a  very  near  thing,  but 
the  race  was  safe  now,  and  with  cries 
of '  Oxford!'  '  Oxford  !' rising  louder 
and  louder  from  every  side  the  dark- 
blue  shot  past  the  Hag  at  jMortlake, 
winners  by  three  lengths. 

'  Oxford  colours  three]iencc,  Cam- 
brid^'e  colours  one  i)emiy '  were  the 
first  words  Ilallett  and  I  heard,  a.s 
we  stepptd  adiore  at  Putney;  and 
didn't  I  wear  my  colours  proudly 
all  that  glorious  afternoon  !  I  shall 
never  forget  that  rare,  and  I  don't 
think  anybody  who  saw  it  will 
ever  forget  it  either.  In  St.  An- 
thony's at  lea.st  it  is  '  freshly  re- 
meralx;red  ;'  and  if  you  want  t<>  stir 
the  sold  of  an  old  rowing  man  ot 
St.  Anthony's,  ask  him  if  he  re- 
meinlM.rs  the  yrar  when  Wingfield 
steered  an  1  Baxter  rowed  I'lve. 


A    liErAlSSiiaVENCil. 


ISi-c  llif  ri"<:lii 


547 

THE  HEART  HATH  A  WORLD  OF  ITS  OWN. 
(With  an  Illustration.) 

THOUGH  the  sapphire  sides  be  studded  ; 
Tlioiigli  the  night  be  crowned  with  the  moon ; 
If  the  soul  l)e  chained  to  December, 

What  l)oots  it  to  speak  of  June? 
Doth  the  mouth  command  the  summer  ? 
Can  a  word  bring  warmth  at  will? — 
Add  heat  to  the  flickering  firelight? 
For  my  laily's  heart  is  chill. 

Can  the  songs  that  reposing  Nature 

Sottly  repeats  in  lier  dreams  ; 
Tlie  nightingale's  lay  in  the  thicket, 

And  the  tinkling  flow  of  the  streams; 
The  manifold  voice  of  the  ocean, 

When  his  ripples  are  loud  as  his  roar. 
Whilst  with  this  he  washes  the  headland, 

And  witli  those  he  kisses  the  shore  ; 

Can  the  rest  of  the  sighing  breezes, 

As  they  breathe  their  sweet  last  in  the  bowerSp 
Or  lull,  on  the  calm-lying  moorlands, 

The  scented  sleep  of  the  flowers  : 
Can  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  mirrors 

The  sprite  like  stars  in  the  seas  : 
Can  the  mystical  silence  of  Heaven, 

Or  the  hush  of  the  world,  bring  peace  ? 

They  may,  if  the  heart  be  at  qtiiet ; 

Tiiey  may,  if  the  soul  be  at  rest ; 
If  not  they  are  lightning  and  thunder, 

And  tempest  and  turmoil  unblest 
Let  these  Wiige  their  uttermost  riot ; 

So  the  heart  with  its  thoughts  be  at  one, 
It  laughs  at  their  vain-sounding  fury ; 

For  tlie  heart  hath  a  world  of  its  own. 

Is  there  peace  in  the  heart  of  my  lady  ? 

Is  there  peace  in  the  words  we  may  trace 
As  we  peer  o'er  the  ivory  shoulder. 

Or  read  ofl"  the  eloquent  face  ? 
Alas  !  that  so  radiant  a  beauty 

Should  be  bound  to  so  grave  concern  ; 
That  the  flush  that  was  meant  for  affection 

To  the  shadow  of  shame  should  tm-n  ! 

Yet  she  reads  not  a  line  of  upbraiding. 

Though  she  hath  misused  her  might; 
And,  where  she  meant  but  to  trifle, 

Hath  crushed,  in  her  own  despite. 
Ah  !  fairest  of  ladies,  take  comfort, 

Though  the  phrase  be  measured  and  strange, 
He,  loving  thee  once,  loves  for  ever ; 

Loves  ever,  and  knows  not  change. 

Yet  cannot  he  love  the  imlovely  ; 

And  his  words  must  be  fettered  and  cold. 
Till  thou  hast  recovered  thy  nature. 

And  frankly  hast  smiled  as  of  old : 
For  the  outraged  heart  must  shelter, 

And  the  wounded  and  yearning  soul 
Must  hide  even  tropical  passion 

'Neath  the  outer  ice  of  the  pole. 

A.  H.  G. 

2  N  a 


548 


PLAYING  FOR  IIIGH  STAKES. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


BY   TEE   LAKE. 


'THE  mare  •which  :Mr.  Tallwt  liad 
1  dediiml  to  1x3  '  too  slight  for 
Batliiirt^t "  had  carried  that  gciitlc- 
luan  far  away  from  tlio  brotliti-s  long 
lieforo  tlio  conversation  which  has 
just  lieeu  recorded  had  come  to 
a  close.  She  had  visibly  flagged,  as 
has  l>een  nai-rated,  on  a  piece  of 
miirshy,  spongy  turf,  and  then  she 
had  got  herself  together,  and  gal- 
lantly borne  him  over  a  hurdle  and 
away  on  a  slightly  sloping  piece  of 
ground  into  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
Haldon  parkland.  Then  he  had 
pulled  up,  quoting  to  himself  the 
Hue  'This  is  the  place— stand  still, 
iny  steed.  Let  me  review  the  most 
eligible  way  of  getting  back  to  the 
house  without  falling  m  with  those 
fellows  again.  I  don't  want  that 
now.'  This  he  said  to  himself 
breathlessly,  looking  about  him  for  a 
short  cut  back  to  the  house.  Pre- 
sently he  saw  one  that  looked  pro- 
mising-an  elm- tree  avenue  in  full 
foliage,  through  which  he  could 
gallop  unobservfd  by  any  one  who 
might  be  on  the  high  lands  a<ljoin- 
ing.  '  Oh,  ride  as  though  you  wtTO 
flying !'  He  sang  out  the  refrain  of 
the  brilliant  Irish  ballad  heartily  as 
the  mare  bounded  into  her  stride, 
and  the  goal  he  sought  was  brought 
nearer  to  him  each  instant.  As  he 
went  along,  conscious  of  looking 
Well  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather, 
swinging  ea^-ily  and  gracefully  to 
each  mcn-ement  of  the  mares,  ho 
felt  rather  sorry  that  I'.lanche  was 
not  near  to  see  him  ;  and  the  feeling 
was  not  an  extraordinarily  con- 
ceited one  under  the  circumstances, 
lor  with  his  fJlengarry  Unt  down 
low  over  his  brow,  his  handsome  fair 
face  glowing  with  the  sun  and  the 
exercise,  and  his  bold  blue  eyes 
brilliant  with  excitement,  he  was  no 
unworthy  object  merely  Irom  the 
artistic  fKiint  of  view. 

A  gn>om  came  out  aa  he  clattered 
hastily  into  the  yard,  and  as  the 
marc  was  led  off  with  heaving  sides 


and  seething  flanks,  he  turned  to  go 
towards  the  house,  and  met  Blanche. 

'  What  a  mad  rider  you  are, 
Frank!'  she  said,  re]>roachfully ; 
'  why  such  ha.ste  when  the  very  air 
is  languid  ?  How  you  have  heated 
that  poor  horse!' 

'  I  was  anxious  to  get  back,'  ho 
Slid.  And  then  Blanche  tried  to 
])ass  on  nearer  to  the  horse,  and  lie 
ofifered  her  his  arm  to  stop  her  pro- 
gress. '  Never  mind  the  mare  now ; 
she  has  been  on  proliation  to-day. 
I  have  lieen  putting  her  through  all 
her  paces,  in  order  to  see  whether 
she  will  suit  you  or  not.  I  have 
decided  that  she  will  suit  you — so 
she  is  yours.' 

She  shook  her  head. 

'  You  are  really  gorgeous  in  your 
generosity,  Frank— a  sort  of  man 
who  would  order  round  "  more  car- 
riages" with  as  grand  a  gra-e  as 
the  Irish  magnate  did.  She  must 
not  be  mine,  however,  the  pretty 
djirling.  1  should  have  a  slight 
ditliculty  in  keeping  her  in  fur- 
nished lodgings  in  town.' 

They  hail  sauntered  slowly  out  of 
theyanl  while  she  had  been  speak- 
ing; and  now  they  had  reached  a 
bend  in  the  drive  from  whence  two 
paths— one  leading  direct  to  the 
house,  the  other  Injaringaway  to  tho 
lake- diverged.  She  half  inclineil  to 
to  the  former  path,  but  he  whis- 
pered — 

'  No,  no !  come  down  by  the 
lake.' 

'  I  am  afraid  of  a  sun-stroke,'  she 
said,  putting  her  hand  up  to  her  bare 
head  as  she  spoke.  '  I  rushed  out 
without  a  hat  to  get  a  few  llowers  ; 
and  then  I  saw  you,  and  forgot  my 
flowers  in  the  agitation  your 
furious  riding  caused  me.' 

'  There's  a  depth  of  shade  under 
that  old  ilex  that  will  secure  yon 
from  all  fear  of  sun-stroka.  Do 
come,  Blanche.' 

Ho  moved  on  with  his  left  hand 
clasping  hers  as  it  rested  on  h  t 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


549 


right  arm,  and  she  was  constrained 
to  go  with  him. 

'What  have  you  done  with  the 
Talbots  ?'  she  asked. 

'  Oh !  never  mind  the  Talbots,' 
he  replied. 

'  But  I  do  mind  about  them  par- 
ticularly,' and  then — she  could  only 
think  it,  she  dared  not  speak  as  one 
who  knew — she  went  on:  'I  am 
afraid  things  are  not  going  as  well 
with  Mr.  Talbot  as  his  friends  could 
wish.' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  frith  Master  Edgar,' 
he  replied,  carelessly,  '  but  he's 
such  a  queer,  close  fellow,  one  can 
never  make  out  what  he's  after; 
however,  as  our  thinking  about  it 
won't  help  him,  we  had  better  not 
think  about  it,  eh  ?' 

*  Frank,  you  are  so  funnily  selfish,' 
she  said,  laughing ;  '  there  is  a  grain 
of  truth  and  honesty  at  the  bottom 
of  every  selfish  remark  you  make 
which  causes  me  to  regard  it  more 
leniently  than  I  should  otherwise 
do,  sir  ;  still  you  are  selfish,  and  it 
is  a  pity.' 

'  1  will  take  the  rest  of  your  re- 
bukes sitting  down,  if  you  will  allow 
me,'  he  replied,  smiling ;  '  there  is 
a  place  for  you,  here  on  this  mound 
by  the  roots— the  light  falls  on 
your  chignon  in  a  most  marvellous 
manner,  and  your  face  will  be  in 
shade ;  so !  may  I  sit  here  ?' 

He  seated  himself  close  by  her 
side,  even  as  he  asked  it ;  leant  on 
his  elbow,  and  looked  up  very  lov- 
ingly into  her  face.  '  I  wish  jou 
would  let  me  go  and  get  my  hat,' 
she  exclaimed,  turning  her  face 
slightly  away  from  his  bent,  earnest 
gaze. 

'  No,  no,  no!' 

'  There  you  are !  selfish  again !  it 
pleases  you  that  I  should  sit  here 
and  scorch  my  brains  because  the 
light  falls,  as  it  seems  good  to  you 
that  it  should  fall,  on  my  chignon.' 

'  Blanche !  not  for  that  only.' 

His  tone  was  a  little  more  serious 
than  any  she  had  ever  heard  from 
him  betore.  She  looked  round  at 
him  quickly  and  scrutinisingly,  and 
then  she  said — 

'  For  some  equally  frivolous  reason, 
then,  I  am  sure!'  Then,  'Forgive 
me,  Frank,  for  saying  that.    I  really 


beg  your  pardon,  but  you  are  so 
much  what  a  brother  would  be  to 
me  that  I  cannot  help  talking  to 
you  as  if  you  were  my  brother.' 

'  I  don't  seem  to  care  to  see  that 
sentiment  strengthened,'  he  said, 
drily. 

'  I  am  sorry  for  that,  for  it  has 
been  strengthening  daily  from  the 
day  I  saw  you  first' 

'  What  did  you  think  of  me  when 
you  saw  me  first  ?' 

'  I  almost  forget — no,  I  do  not— 1 
liked  you,  and  felt  as  well  disposed 
towards  you  as  one  does  towards 
the  majority  of  people.  Natural 
aifection  does  not  develop  in  an  in- 
staut,  you  know.' 

'  I  don't  care  what  natural  affec- 
tion does,  but  the  immortals  love 
each  other  at  fijst  sight,  and  love  is 
of  them.' 

*  I  am  sure  I  shall  get  a  sun- 
stroke,' Blanche  said,  hurriedly  ;  '  if 
you  would  only  let  me  go  and  get 
my  hat  I  should  like  you  so  much?' 

'  Perhaps  you  would  not  come 
baok?' 

'  Yes,  I  would.' 

'  Perhaps  you  would  not  come 
back  alone  ?' 

'  Well,  it  may  occur  to  you  to 
remember  that  Miss  Talbot  may 
find  it  dull  alone  with  mamma.' 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  she  will  find  it 
delightful  with  mamma;  at  any 
rate,  I  find  it  delightful  that  she 
should  be  up  there  with  mamma 
while  I  am  here  with  you.  Come, 
Blanche,  don't  be  so  restless :  you 
give  your  society  for  hours  to  Talbot 
or  to  Lai,  and  you  grudge  me  a  few 
minutes.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about ' 

'About  what?'  she  interrupted, 
laughing.  '  I  can  tell  you,  without 
your  taking  any  trouble :  you  want 
me  to  speak  to  you  of  "  Tann- 
hauser,"  without  waiting  for  any  re- 
plies from  you ;  you  wish  to  enjoy  the 
sun  in  silence,  and  as  you  know  that 
I  am  well  contented  to  hear  myself 
speak,  you  will  condescend  to  listen 
to  me.'  She  tried  to  rattle  on,  with- 
out giving  him  the  opportunity  of 
saying  a  word;  but  .he  divined  her 
motive,  and  frustrated  it. 

'  Quite  the  reverse,'  he  said.  '  As  a 
rule,  you  are  right  in  supposing  that 
while  you  spoke  I  could  desire  no 


550 


Playing  for  Ili'jh  Slakeg. 


Ixjtter  oocTipation  tlinn  to  hear  you ; 
but  ou  this  occasion  I  waut  to  speak, 
RUil  you  must  listen.' 

'  Hiiw  Well  tlie  house  looks  from 
here.'  the  sjiid. 

'  Yes;  the  remark  is  jxiculiarly 
relevant  to  the  point  I  wa.s  discus- 
sing, is  it  not  ?'  he  answered,  smiling 
'  Queer  it  is  that  wo  should  Ihj  st- 
ting  here  lookinc;  at  the  house  that 
would  have  been  your  own  if  you 
had  not  lK!en  over-jiroud  and  over- 
generous  to  me.' 

'  Not  over-generous  to  you.  I 
knew  nothing  of  you:  you  were  a 
niwuo  to  me.  "  Bathurst's  hoy  "  jiapa 
used  to  call  you.'  Then  the  remem- 
hrauce  of  the  proposition  that  had 
been  made  with  regard  to  '  IJa- 
thurst's  boy '  t)y  herself  about  her- 
self shot  acro.ss  her  mind,  and  she 
blushed  and  laughed. 

'  The  man  is  very  grateful  for  the 
good  you  gave  the  boy,'  he  said, 
softly;  '  1  almost  feel  a.s  if  I  owed 
myself  to  you,  Blanche.  What  an 
obscure  fellow  I  siiould  have  been 
if  vou  had  seen  and  conquered  old 
Mr.  Lyou  !' 

'  Poverty,  or,  at  any  rate,  want  of 
wealth  is  not  necessarily  "obscu- 
rity," '  she  replied. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if 
he  rather  doubted  the  truth  of  that 
ai)horism. 

'  You  would  have  been  an  equally 
gofxl,  and  jKrliai)s  a  far  gnater, 
man  if  you  had  i)t|en  left  to  your 
own  devices,  Frant-,  than  y<ju  will 
ever  Ix;  now ;  you  have  nothing  to 
l)e  grateful  to  me  for.' 

'  Give  me  something  to  he  grate- 
ful for,'  he  .said,  winningly;  and  he 
])ut  his  white,  well-sliap<  d  hand  on 
hers  as  he  sjwke.  '  Will  you  give 
me  something  to  be  gmteful  for? 
will  you,  Blaiii-he?' 

'Yes;  I  will  give  you  excellent 
advice  —  do  not  resent  it.  iJeiucmber 
what  I  said  to  you  the  f)ther  day 
when  we  were  all  down  hero— recall 
the  s|>ell  I  repeated,  and  the  remark 
I  made  alnjut  it.' 

'  Is  tli'at  your  advice  ?' 

•Yes.' 

'  Why  do  yon  offer  it  ?' 

'  Why,  inileeiP!'  she  said,  with  an 
fti-suniptioii  of  a  careless  air.  '  I 
think  I  can  give  you  a  cogent 
rca.son,  though.   1  should  like  to  see 


you  grow  earnest,  for,  ns  I  told  you, 
"  the  heart  may  not  l)0  thine''  until 
you  do  so;  and  it  is  a  ])ity  to  wait 
over  long  for  it,  for  Trixy's  heart 
would  l)e  well  worth  having.' 

•  Is  that  your  advice  -  that  1 
should  eiidtavour  to  gain  Miss  Tal- 
l)ot's  heart  ?'  ho  asked,  and  if  he  had 
not  l>eeu  Frank  Bathurst  he  would 
have  looked  mortified.  Being  him- 
self, he  merely  threw  an  additionally 
imploring  expression  into  his  eyes — 
an  expression  which  Blanche  steadily 
resisted,  for  ria.sons  that  have  been 
already  assigned.       • 

'  Indeed  I  do— if  you  can.* 

lie  threw  himself  back  with  an 
air  of  coutidciice  on  the  subject  that 
was  not  (juite  pleasing'  totlie  woman 
who  loved  Trixy  Tall>ot's  brother. 
'  Frank,  you  are  woefully  conceited, 
I  am  afraid,'  she  said,  reproachfully  ; 
'  and  I  feel  rather  guilty,  for  I 
know  that  I  have  aided  in  making 
you  so.' 

'  No,  not  at  all ;  your  conscience 
is  quite  clear  on  that  score,'  he  re- 
plied, almost  bitterly;  'you  have 
l»een  kind  to  me  ;  but  this  morning 
you  are  determined,  for  some  rea.son 
or  other,  to  make  your  manner 
counterbalance  all  that  kindness. 
I  ftel  very  much  rebufled.' 

'  Now  you  make  me  feel  guilty 
of  injustice,  folly,  and  rudeiie.ss. 
Wliy  shouM  I  rebiiflf  you?  To  me 
you  are  all  that  the  kindest  brother 
could  Ihj;  let  me  regard  you  as 
such,  Frank  ;  it  w'ili  be  such  a  com- 
fort to  me.' 

'  But  it  will  be  no  comfort  to 
me,'  he  replied.  '  It  is  all  very 
well,  Blanche,  but  platonic  affection 
breaks  down  between  friends,  and 
fraternal  afTcelion  will  not  answer 
between  cousins,  when  I  am  one  and 
you  the  other  ))arty  concerned  ;  if  I 
had  never  seen  you,  I  should  have 
fallen  in  love  with  Tri.\y  Talbot ;  but 
I  have  .seen  you,  and  I'm  a  gone 
'coon.' 

She  would  not  take  it  as  a  decla- 
ration ;  she  would  not  allow  him  to 
suppo.se  that  she  could  for  one  mo- 
ment think  he  intended  it  to  \>e 
o.\|»iessive  of  a  desire  to  marry  her. 
8he  did  not  belong  to  that  order  of 
women  who  look  upon  every  word, 
even  of  avowed  aflection,  as  a  step 
towards    the   altar.     So  now  she 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


551 


began  to  sing  out,  sweetly  and 
blithely,  the  words : 

Tliy  words  of  couilly  flattery,  such  fall    like 

iiioviiiiig  clew  ; 
For  oh  !  lox'e  talces  onother  turn,  the  tender  and 

the  true. 
Liking  light  as  ours  was  never  meant  to  last; 
It  was  a  moment's  phantasy,  and  as  sueh  it  has 

passed.' 

And  when  she  sanglhat,  Frank  very 
wisely  resoh^eil  to  oeasefroni  further 
teader  treatment  of  his  subject  that 
day. 

But  he  was  very  far  from  giving 
up  his  point;  for  all  his  gay,  light 
manner,  for  all  that  habit  of  seem- 
ing never  to  rare  for  one  thing  long, 
he  had  trrtat  tenacity  of  purpose, 
especially  when,  as  in  this  case, 
obstacles  aro.^e  where  least  they  had 
been  expected.  The  hare  that 
doubled  most  frequently  was  the 
one  he  most  cated  to  course;  the 
deer  that  gave  the  hounds  a  hard 
run  was  the  one  he  loved  1o  follow; 
and  the  woman  '  who  warned  the 
touch  while  winning  the  sense'  was 
the  one  he  wished  to  woo,  and  win, 
and  wed. 

'Is  she  afraid  of  being  seriously 
regarded  too  soon  ?'  he  said,  coax- 
ingly,  when  Blanche  had  quite 
finished  her  little  strain.  '  Melo- 
dious Mentor!  tell  me  the  way  to 
be  tetider  and  true  according  to 
your  song.' 

*  Lil  e  "the  Douglas,"'  she  ex- 
claimed, eagerly  changing  the 
topic.  '"  DouKlas,  Doufilas  tender 
and  trvie!"  Oh!  those  dear  old 
bolder  ballads.  Why  have  we  no 
bard  to  sing  likewise  in  the?e  days? 
In  place  of  those  geuuine  rhythms 
we  get  verses  of  society  that  small 
critics  are  good  eaiougla  to  call 
"  Pracdesque."  Poor,  maligned 
Praed!  why  should  he  be  macle  to 
father  such  folly  ?' 

'  As  what?' 

'  As  the  tinkling  line=?  that  clioke 
the  magazines.  We  have  lost  our 
gallantry  —  our  good  gallantry,  I 
mean  ;  the  "  idea "  flourishes  still. 
We  have  lost  our  guileless  belief 
in  the  "  brave  and  noble,"  and  so 
none  are  found  to  sing  it.  We  have 
lost  our  genuineness  in  most  things, 
and  s-pecially  in  the  artistic  part  of 
our  nationality,  have  we  not,  Frank  ?' 

'  I  have  not  given  my  mind  to 


the  subject  very  seriously,'  he  re- 
plied, demurely  ;  '  but  I  do  not, 
think  that  we  have  lost  our  "go" 
iu  poetry  or  in  any  other  branch  of 
art ;  there  is  an  immense  amount  of 
fervid  trash  written  and  published, 
but  a  few  young  lights  are  rising  up 
whose  blaze  is  liofc  and  clear.' 

'  But  no  one  to  be  compared  with 
Scott,  or  Byron,  or  Shelley— whom 
I  don't  half  understand.' 

'Scott,  whom  jou  mention  now 
with  such  wholesome  awe,  was 
named  less  reverently  by  his  com- 
peer in  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
IJeviewers  " : — 

"  And  Shakespeare,  Jlilton,  Dryden,  all  forgot. 
Kisign  their  hallowed  bays  to  Walter  Scott." 

"  Time  tries  all,"  you  know.  A  few 
of  those  whom  you  now  look  upon 
as  producers  of  mere  "  tinkling 
lines  "  may  be  found  to  have  good 
metal  in  them  before  the  century  is 
old.' 

'  I  wonder  whether  there  is  any- 
thing in  it  all  ?'  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  '  Sometimes  it  all  seems 
such  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit, 
and  nothing  is  worth  anything,  and 
all  is  emptiness.  Were  the  mighty 
men  of  old  happy,  I  wonder  ?  Homer 
did  not  enjoy  life  a  bit  more  for  his 
works  living  on  through  all  the  ages. 
Do  you  think  he  was  happy?' 

'I  should  i  ot  be  surpiised  to  hear 
-he  was  not,'  Frank  answered,  lazily. 
'  The  fellow  who  wrote  the  "  Art  of 
Love  "  (from  experience,  let  us  sup- 
pose), must  have  had  a  jolly  time  of 
it;  but  the  knowledge  iliat  he  is  to 
be  learnt  a  few  hundred  years  hence 
by  little  boys  who  object  to  you  can 
hardly  add  to  any  man's  happi- 
ness.' 

'  Frank,'  Blanche  Lyon  said,  sml- 
denly  turning  her  head  towards  him 
as  he  ^oun,i:ed  at  her  side, 'you'n! 
nice,  and  witty,  and  shallow— fright- 
fully shallow.  I  am  suieif  I  had 
been  a  maa  I  woull  have  done 
something  good  with  my  life,  for  I 
have  a  liorror  of  hearing  the  little 
thinsy  that  we  say  in  joke  about  the 
mighty  thin^^s  that  have  been.  I 
lack  veneration  for  many  things,  I 
know  that,  but  I  do  respect  so  many 
things  that  you  treat  facetiously  be- 
cause you  fail  to  understand  them.' 

'  That's  all  Lionel  Talbot  talk— 


P/oilliiij  for  Ilijh  SUdes. 


tivateil  nocorlinply,'  he  said,  Imigli- 
in?.  *LnI  is  a  clniriiiiii;;  Irllow, 
with  an  iinnitnse  fiiiid  of  fuith  in 
Uw  true  aii'l  t'c  In  antifiil,  and  all 
the  tliinps  lli:itareu'»ncrrtlly  written 
^vith  capital  initial  Itttirs;  and  you 
liuve  pic'kid  up  soniu  of  liis  notions. 
"  Done  sonicthini;  i!,ok\  witli  your 
life  if  you  had  hoi-n  a  man,"  would 
yon  ?  What  a  lx)on  it  is  to  tlic  rest 
of  us  tliat  J  on  aro  only  a  woman,  and 
M)  not  thit  (' 'lo-sal  bore,  a  sliining 
I X  imi)K' !  litres  a  cliance  for  your 
amelioratiiit:  tlio  mentil  c»n<iition 
of  yonr  hutTeriiij*  fellow-crt^a'ures 
still— do  sometiiing  good  with  my 
life.  1  am  (juito  ready  to  place  it  in 
your  hmuls.' 

'  Were  my  hrain  steady  I  might 
tliink  of  accepting  tlie  charge, 
Frank,  hut  the  sun  has  heen  too 
iinich  for  me.  "  Oh  !  ilex  tree— oh! 
ilex  tree,  liow  faithless  are  thy 
branches  !''  They  have  let  the  rays 
in  uj)on  nie,  s  >  that,  if  yon  would 
not  see  me  grow  red  and  uuIkj- 
coming,  yon  will  let  me  go  in  out 
o''  the  way  of  them.' 

'It  is  a  mis'ako  to  Fay  "man 
never  />■  hnt  al  ^vays  to  hr  hie.sscd  :" 
that  applies  esp-cially  to  women,' 
I'nink  .-aid,  iiii]iaticnt|y.  'I  thought 
we  were  very  hapj)y  here,  so  of 
coun-e  yon  find  it  Uxt  hot.  Well,  I 
am  yonr  slave,  lilanehe;  we  will  go 
in  if  you  like.  I  will  always  do 
what  you  like.' 

He  had  ta':en  b  )th  her  hands,  and 
was  lifiing  her  up  from  her  sitting 
jio'^tiu'e  as  he  spoke,  and  she  was 
looki"g  up  g'adly  and  gratefully 
into  his  face  — gladly  and  gra'efully  ! 
aTid  lie  fully  deserved  that  she 
f<hould  shower  such  glances  ujxjn 
him,  for  he  had  heen  very  generous 
in  saying  no  more  when  she  had 
given  him  to  understand  tlint  he  had 
said  enough.  As  slu;  fairly  balanced 
herself,  and  stdfKl  steadily  upon  her 
feet,  Lionel  came  o.er  the  crest  of 
the  bank  that  rose  up  from  the 
water,  and  l5lancho  blushed  with  the 
miserable  con.«ciousness  that  l)e.set 
l>er  of  seeming  other  than  she  wa.s; 
and  the  two  men  felt  that  the  trip  to 
Algeria,  which  Lionel  had  contem- 
jilateil,  would  1)0  a  desirable  thing 
after  all. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

*  THOU  AUT   60   NE.\R,   AND  YET 
60  KAK.' 

When  Mr.  Talbot  went  back  to 
Ilaldon,  leaving  Lionel  leaning 
against  a  hurdle,  lu*  (Edgar)  was, 
as  has  been  told,  in  no  ))leasanf. 
mood,  lie  had  suggested  that  his 
brother  should  l)ear  the  Inirden  of 
the  biid  news  to  his  sister,  and  his 
brother  had,  in  all  single-minded- 
iicss,  p  inted  out  to  him  that  to  do 
fio  was  his,  the  elder's,  part.  Mr. 
Talbot  was  far  from  feeling  con- 
Tinced  that  this  was  the  ease ;  at 
the  same  time  he  was  e<]ually  far 
from  being  capable  of  again  hinting 
hi.s  desires  on  the  subject.  Accord- 
ingly, he  went  back  to  the  hou.ee 
just  about  the  time  that  Frank 
l?athurst  and  I'lanche  emerged  from 
the  yard,  and  the  glimpse  he  caught 
of  that  pair  lazily  sauntering  away 
towards  the  water  did  not  brighten 
his  temper  or  his  bearing. 

He  found  IJeatrix  sitting  by 
the  open  window,  down  on  the 
threshold  of  it,  in  fact,  in  the  same 
]iosition  she  had  oc('Ui)ieil  on  the 
))r(  vious  night,  when  Frank  lia- 
thur-t  had  faced  her  — looking  elo 
«|uently  all  his  fervent  ndnuration 
for  her  hair  and  (ves.  She  had  a 
little  work-basket  on  her  lap,  and 
an  ()\M.'\\  l'fK)k  on  a  chair  imme- 
diately by  her  side.  iJut  .she  was 
neither  reading  nor  working  actively 
— she  was  thinking,and  her  thoughts 
interfered  with  her  executive  power. 

'  Can  I  sjieak  to  you  here,  without 
being  liable  to  Mrs.  Lyon  at  any 
moment'?'  lie  a.sked,  lifting  up  the 
open  book  anil  ))!a(  iug  himself  on 
the  chair  by  her  side.  '  If  not, 
come  away  somewhere  el.so,  Trixy.' 

'  I  can  account  for  Mrs.  Lyon  for 
the  next  hour;  she  has  gone  down 
to  the  village,  to  look  at  a  cottage 
that  is  to  let.' 

'  What  on  earth  for?' 

'  Blanche— Miss  Lyon  told  her 
this  morning  that  a  triin<l  of  hers 
might  possibly  want  a  small  coun- 
try house  soon;  and  Mr^.  Lyon,  it 
sc' ins,  delights  in  househunting. 
So  she  made  inquiries  of  the  ser- 
vants, heard  of  this  cottage,  and  has 
gone  off  to  look  at  it.' 


Playing  for  High  Stakes, 


563 


'  And  can  you  accouut  for  the 
others?'  he  asked,  carelessly;  but 
he  watched  her  with  furtive  keen- 
ness as  she  began  trifling  with  the 
contents  of  her  work-basket,  and 
answered — 

'  Miss  Lyon  has  gone  out  to 
gather  flowers— the  others  went  out 
with  you,  did  they  not?' 

'  She  is  gathering  flowers  that 
bloom  unseen  by  us,  then,  for  I  saw 
her  going  down  to  the  lake  with 
Bathurst  as  I  came  in.  However, 
that  is  not  what  1  wanted  to  tell 
you,  Trixy. .  The  truth  is,  things 
have  gone  very  badly  with  me,  and 
it  is  time  you  should  know  it,  as 
you  will  he  a  sufferer.' 

She  looked  up,  startled  and  af- 
fected as  much  by  the  tenderness 
with  which  he  addiessed  her,  as  by 
the  tidings  his  words  conveyed  ;  but 
before  she  had  said  anything  he 
went  on  in  a  peevish  tone — 

'  Don't  go  white  and  red  about  it. 
Of  all  things  I  hate  a  scene.  The 
less  ?aid  about  my  business  the 
better,  since  no  amount  of  talking 
can  po'-sibly  set  it  straight.  I  have 
been  unfortunate  to  an  extraordi- 
nary degree,  having  lost  not  only 
my  own  money  but  all  Lionel's  and 
a  good  deal  of  Mark  Sutton's  into 
the  bargain ' 

She  interrupted  him  here  by  hold- 
ing her  face  up  to  kiss  him ;  as  he 
bent  down  to  her  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

'  For  mercy's  sake  don't  cry, 
Beatrix,'  he  muttered.  '  I  can  stand 
anything  better  than  women's  tears. 
It  is  hard  on  you — very  hard  on 
you,  I  allow  th&,t,  but  you  shall 
feel  the  change  as  little  as  possible ; 
that  I  swear.' 

'Oh!  Edgar,  do  you  believe  that 
I  am  thinkingofmyi^elf?' she  asked, 
reproach  lully. 

'  Of  course  I  do  —it  is  only  natiiral 
and  human  that  you  should  think 
of  yourself.  It  is  a  bad  thing  for 
you ;  a  very  bad  thing.  In  a  little 
time,  had  I  been  able  to  hold  on, 
you  would  probably  have  been  in- 
dependent of  me.  Is  that  chance 
over,  Trixy  ? — tell  me  honestly.' 

'  What  chance  ?'  she  asked,  crim- 
soning painfully. 

'  We  have  come  to  such  a  pass 
that  it  is  feeble  of  you  to  attempt 


to  evade  my  natural  anxiety  about 
you  out  of  false  delicacy,  ilow  do 
you  stand  with  Batliurst  ?' 

'  Edgar!  how  can  you  ask  me? 
If  I  stood  in  any  other  relation  to 
him  than  is  apparent  to  all  the  world 
should  I  not  have  told  you  ?  or 
rather,  would  he  not  have  told  you 
so?' 

'  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that — about 
him,  at  least,'  Edgar  Talbot  said, 
shaking  his  head.  '  Now,  look  here, 
Trixy — you  like  him  ;  of  that  I  am 
sure.  I  shall  more  bitterly  regret 
my  loss  of  fortune  on  your  account 
than  I  do  already  if  it  were  the 
mfans  of  separating  you  from  him. 
I  have  been  very  plain-spoken  with 
you-  far  more  so  than  I  should  have 
been  if  I  did  not  feel  that,  even  at 
some  cost  of  fine  feeling  to  you,  I 
am  bound  to  make  you  all  the  re- 
paration I  can  make.  Be  equally 
candid  with  me.  Would  it  not  be 
agreeable  to  your  wishes  to  live 
down  here  for  a  time  with  the 
Lyons,  rather  than  to  return  to  a 
less  comfortable  home  in  London 
than  you  have  known  hitherto?' 

'To  live  down  here! — no,  no,  no  I' 

'  Not  here  at  Haldon,  but  in  the 
village.  I  am  the  one  Miss  Lyon 
had  in  her  mind  when  she  spoke  of 
some  friend  of  hers  possibly  soon 
requiring  country  quarters.' 

'  How  did  she  know  ?' 

'  Because  I  told  her  last  night.' 

'  How  you  all  rely  on  her  judg- 
ment,' Trixy  cried  out,  bitterly.  '  I 
thought  till  now  that  it  was  only 
Lionel  and  Mr.  Bathurst  who  turned 
to  her  on  all  occasions,  as  if  she 
were  the  best  guide,  j^hilosopher, 
and  friend  they  could  possibly 
have.  Now  I  find  you  give  her 
your  confidence  before  you  give  it 
to  me.' 

'  Circumstances  compelled  me  to 
give  her  my  confidence.  I  want 
her  mother  to  continue  with  you 
still,'  he  answered,  evasively.  'And 
now  tell  me — what  objection  have 
you  to  remaining  down  in  this 
neighbourhood,  provided  a  suitable 
house  can  be  found  ?  Victoria  Sti'eet 
must  go — I  tell  you  that  fairly ;  and 
I  do  not  think  it  will  be  to  your 
interest  or  to  mine  to  take  you  into 
an  inferior  metropolitan  locality; 
besides,  it  will  be  cheaper  here.' 


554 


Ploying  for  High  Stakea. 


'  Why  not  some  other  neighbour- 
hood?' slio  urged. 

'  And  why  some  other  ncigli- 
lioiuiiood?'  ho  replied.  '  It  will 
save  time,  1  rouble,  and  money  if  I 
can  estiilili.sh  you  hero  with  the 
Lyons;  fiiiunld  any  change  arise  it 
will  bo  eiv^y  to  fake  you  away.' 

'  What  ehango  are  you  contem- 
plating ?■ 

'  Well,  to  jnit  it  broadly,  and  in 
puch  a  way  that  we  may  both  fully 
untlor.-tand  tlio  other— should  Ba- 
thurst  marry  Blanche  Lyon,  I  can 
quite  feel  witli  jou  that  the  village 
would  be  no  litting  residence  for 
you;  but  we  do  not  know  that  this 
is  likely  to  be  ;  and  therefore,  unless 
the  plan  is  positively  painful  to 
you,  I  shall  ask  you  for  my  sake  to 
agree  to  it.'  • 

'  I  submit  entirely  to  your  judg- 
ment/ she  ?ai(l,  coldly.  It  seemed 
to  her  tiiat  her  brother  was  K'tray- 
iug  a  callousness  a.s  to  her  feelings 
in  the  matter  which  Ies.sened  his 
claims  on  lier  affeetion,  however  it 
might  be  about  her  obedience.  Ho 
was  evidently  determined  to  play  her 
—  his  last  card,  however  much  she 
might  suffer  in  the  publicity  of  such 
staking,  and  however  keenly  she 
might  be  wounded  if  he  lo.st.  Plainly 
as  he  had  sjioken  to  her,  she  had 
not  iKicn  alile  to  bring  herself  to 
speak  with  equal  plainness  to  him 
in  return.  He  had  assumed  that 
she  was  in  love  with  ^Ir.  Batluir.^t, 
and  she  had  not  denied  the  as!>unip- 
tion.  On  the  other  hand,  she  had 
not  acquiesced  in  it  even  when  he 
had  said  that  he  'could  quite  feel 
with  her  that  the  village  would  1)0 
no  fitting  residence  for  her  in  tho 
eventof  I5athurat's  marrying  Blanche 
Lyon.' 

Inconsistent  as  it  may  appear, 
after  the  cool  manner  of  her  sub- 
mission having  been  commented 
uj)on,  Beatiix  Tall)ot  was  conscious 
of  iK'ing  glad  that  sho  was  not  to 
lie  entirely  removed  from  the  society 
of  the  man  sho  loved.  The  incon- 
fii.stency  is  admitted,  ami  the  artistic 
propriety  of  it  defended,  for  in  real 
life  tho  great  majority  are  consistent 
only  in  inconsistency  of  feeling,  if 
not  of  acti(jn.  Some  subtle  adjust- 
ment f)f  her  sentiments  reganling 
Frank  Bathurst  made  her  glad  that 


she  was  not  to  bo  taken  away  from 
his  atnio.-phore  altogether;  at  tho 
same  time,  she  was  sorry  that  any 
other  than  himself  should  have  pro- 
posed her  remaining  in  it.  More- 
over, sho  was  jiartially  rejcticed  and 
partially  grieved,  in  somo  intricate 
way,  tliiit  this  .social  convulsion  wius 
conu'ng  about.  ]\iatters  resettle 
themselves  ditTereiitly  after  such 
thioes  and  dis.-^olvings  of  former 
habits;  aTid  she  argued,  after  tho 
manner  of  women,  that  the  worst 
which  certainly  might  ensue  would 
be  better  than  this  nniiuiet  in  which 
lier  heart  now  dwelt.  So  she 
thought,  comforting  herself  for  a 
few  moments  after  her  la^-t  speech 
to  her  brother,  and  then  sho  be- 
gan to  stab  herself  again  by  picturing 
what  she  should  do,  and  how  sho 
should  feel  it,  after  she  was  safely 
settled  in  tlui  cottage  with  the  Lyon>--, 
Mr.  I'atiiurst  came  and  took  one  ot 
the  inhab'tants  thereof  away,  leav- 
ing 1  or  (Trixyj  to  solace  Jlrs.  Lyon's 
declining  years.  It  w'as  not  a  jileas- 
ing  picture,  but  it  did  not  last 
longer,  fortunately,  than  such  pain- 
ful mental  ))uintings  are  wont  to  do. 
A  sweeter  subje:  t,  in  more  glowing 
hues,  spiead  itself  over  the  canvas 
of  her  mind  j)iesently,as  she  thought 
of  the  night  lietore,  and  how  he  had 
looked  at  lier  wlion  he  had  declaied 
him.self  to  'l>o  sympathetic,  what- 
ever J51anche  might  say  to  tho  con- 
trary.' 

'  Edgar,  I  will  live  wherever  you 
wish  me  to  live,  and  be  as  happy  as 
possible,'  she  said,  suddmly,  in 
quite  a  dilTerent  tone  to  tho  one  in 
which  she  hail  previously  agreetl  to 
his  desire.  Then  he  got  up  and 
went  away,  thuiking  that  it  was 
impossible  she  could  have  looked  so 
absurdly  hojjeful  all  in  a  moment 
if  she  had  not  some  reasonable  foun- 
dation for  believing  that  Batluust 
was  in  earnest  about  lur. 

'  If  lilancho  Lyon  should  elect  to 
go  away,'  he  sad  to  himself,  •  Trixy 
would  carry  tho  day :  he  can't  re- 
sint  the  "present"  soft  inlluenco.' 
Then  he  desj)i.sed  Mr.  I'.aihurst  very 
heartily  for  that  power  of  loving  all 
that  was  lovely,  which  was  so  ooii- 
neiitly  characteristic  of  him,  and 
at  the  same  time  made  up  his  mind 
to  adopt  all  tho  moans  ho  knew,  iu 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


555 


order  to  compass  the  desirable  end 
of  getting  Frank  Eathurst  for  a 
brother-in-law. 

Meanwhile,  the  trio  who  were  left 
a  short  time  since  on  the  sloping 
bank,  looking  at  each  other,  and 
each  wi:5hiijg  that  the  other  was 
not  there  to  be  looked  at,  had  met 
and  spoken  as  civility  dictated,  and 
had  withal  done  these  things  with  a 
degree  of  embarrassment  that  gave 
a  false  appearance  to  what  was 
really  an  innocent  situation.  It  may 
fairly  be  questioned  whether  any- 
body ever  came  abruptly  upon  a 
pair  of  human  beings  without  the 
surprised  and  the  surpriser  looking 
as  if  something  untoward  had  oc- 
curred. In  reality,  Blanche  Lyon 
was  very  glad  to  see  Lionel ;  his 
presence  relieved  her  from  the  ne- 
cessity of  continuing  that  flow  of 
words  without  meaning,  which  she 
had  let  loose  in  order  to  save  Frank 
from  goiijg  too  far  and  putting  an 
end  to  their  cordial  relations  as  at 
present  existing.  Perhaps  there  is 
no  greater  bore  to  the  woman  who 
does  not  want  to  marry  him,  than 
that  a  man  she  likes  should  persist 
in  hovering  perilously  near  the 
brink  of  that  precipice— a  proposal. 
His  attentions,  his  devotion,  his 
warm  regard,  are  all  such  pleasant 
things  that  she  cannot  help  wishing 
to  keep  them  on  as  they  are.  But 
the  serious  offer  of  his  hand  and 
heart  is  quite  another  matter,  one 
that  intensifies  the  poetry  of  the 
proceeding  only  to  kill  it  the  more 
effectually.  For  I  hold  it  true  that 
as  it  is  impossible  for  a  woman  to 
think  other  than  warmly  and  kindly 
of  a  man  who  has  let  her  know  that 
he  loves  her,  &o  it  is  impossible  for 
a  man  to  think  other  than  harshly 
of  a  woman  who  has  suffered  him 
to  drift  into  the  declaration  when 
she  can  make  him  no  fitting  return. 
In  the  court  of  love  there  is  no  ap- 
peal against  love  turned  to  hate, 
wounded  vanity,  and  the  sense  of 
having  been  lured  into  a  false  posi- 
tion. Blanche  Lyon  recognised 
these  truths,  and  so,  as  she  did  care 
very  much  for  Frank  Bathurst's 
liking  and  regard,  she  was  glad  that, 
though  he  had  very  distinctly  given 
her  to  understand  that  he  loved  her, 
he  had  not  put  her  in  the  place  of 


either  having  to  reject  or  accept  his 
love  as  a  thing  which  must  last  her 
ail-sufficiently  through  time. 

Still,  though  she  was  glad  the 
interruption  had  come,  she  wished 
it  had  come  in  another  form  than  in 
the  person  of  Lionel  Talbot.  She 
knew  very  well  that  he  was  not  at 
all  the  sort  of  man  who  sighs  for 
that  which  ought  nut  in  honour  to 
be  his ;  he  had  not  at  all  the  urder 
of  mind  which  covets  his  neigh- 
bour's possessions.  For  some  men's 
minds,  the  fact  of  there  being  a 
soupr.on  of  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate 
end  of  their  endeavours  to  create 
interest  in  the  breasts  of  the  women 
who  most  interest  them,  has  a  fatal 
fascination.  For  Lionel  Talbot 
Blanche  Lyon  feared  it  would  have 
none.  He  was  not  one  to  sigh  to 
prove  himself  a  stronger  man  than 
the  one  already  in  occupation  of 
that  citadel  which,  according  to  his 
creed,  could  only  be  fairly  rendered 
up  once — a  woman's  heart.  He 
would  be  incapable  of  running  a 
race  for  any  favour  with  any  man, 
more  especially  with  his  old  friend, 
Blanche  thought,  sadly,  even  as  she 
talked  brightly  to  both  the  men  as 
they  walked  one  on  either  side  of 
her  up  to  the  house. 

Without  being  deceitful  or  despe- 
rately wicked,  Blanche's  heart  was 
made  of  the  material  that  never 
suffeis  its  owner  to  say  die  while  a 
possibility  of  living  exists.  Even 
when  she  was  miserable  she  would 
seem  to  be  happy,  partly  out  of 
pride  for  herself,  and  partly  out  of 
good  feehng  for  others.  '  1  cannot 
bear  to  be  pitied  for  being  depressed, 
or  to  depress  others  by  looking 
downhearted,'  was  the  reason  she 
had  once  given  when  rebuked  for  an 
external  air  of  joyousness  that  did 
not  accord  with  what  her  mamma 
declared  she  ought  to  be  feeling  oa 
some  melancholy  subject.  So  now, 
in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of 
this  considerate  creed,  she  seemed 
to  be  very  much  at  ease,  very  gay 
and  full  of  vivacity,  when  she  was 
in  reality  restless,  nervous,  and  un- 
happy. 

One  of  the  chief  causes  of  her  dis- 
quiet was  that,  after  this,  her  rela- 
tions with  Frank  would  of  necessity 
be   altered.    She    thought   that  it 


556 


Playing  for  High  Stahee, 


would  Iv  impossible  for  him  to  Iw 
as  lie  liiul  Ucn  l)cfore  with  her. 
Though  he  hiul  f-avod  himself  from 
actually  at;kiiif:  hor  such  a  dirtct 
qutsfiou  as  would  have  involved  her 
pivinp  him  a  direct  answer,  he  had 
suffered  such  a  tone  to  creep  into 
the  conversation  as  could  have  left 
no  reasonalilo  doubt  in  the  mind  of 
either  a-s  to  the  other  having  per- 
fectly understocnl  the  iK)sitiou.  And 
she  was  sorry  for  tin's,  more  sorry 
than  she  would  have  been  had 
she  more  clearly  fathomed  Frank 
Bathurst's  mind  and  feelings.  It 
was  not  in  him  to  give  serious 
thought  to  what  was  over  or  to  what 
was  inevitable;  it  was  not  in  him  to 
regret  anj  thing  for  long,  or  to  be- 
moan himself  for  having  wandered 
into  any  sort  of  error,  provided  he 
could  get  out  of  it  gracefully.  On 
this  occasion  he  told  himseff,  with 
some  truth,  that  he  had  got  out  of 
it  gracefully.  The  sweet  things  ho 
had  said  to  Blanche  would  never  be 
regretted  by  him;  ho  was  far  too 
gallant  to  repent  him  of  the  utter- 
ance of  tender  words  to  a  woman. 

Moreover,  as  lie  walked  on  by  her 
side,  looking  down  upon  her  bare 
head  as  she  moved  it  in  its  un- 
covered glory  from  side  to  side, 
alternately  addressing  IJonel  and 
himself,  a.s  she  did  this,  and  ho  was 
struck  afresh  by  the  beauty  of  her 
rounded  cheek  and  clearly  cut  jiro- 
file,  he  felt  far  from  sure  that  he  had 
made  a  mistakt;  after  all.  Blanche 
was  just  the  sf)rt  of  woman  to  exact 
a  considerable  amount  of  wooing 
before  she  would  show  herself  ready 
to  be  won ;  she  would  never  make 
a  mi.stuke  and  show  that  she  ex- 
pected something  serious  when  there 
was  nothing  serious  coming;  she 
would  use  her  womanly  prerogative 
to  the  full ;  freely  as  she  might  flirt, 
she  would  not  go  out  meekly  half- 
way to  meet  an  offer  of  marriage. 
All  these  things  ho  told  himself, 
recovering  his  sjiirit.s  most  perfectly 
during  the  telling,  waxing  more 
charming  and  satisfactory  to  him- 
self and  his  companions  as  he  U- 
camo  more  charmed  and  satisfied 
each  instant  with  the  view  of  tlic 
case  which  he  was  offering  for  his 
own  insjH.'ction.  lie  banislie<l  all 
memory  ot  the  advice  Blanche  ha<l 


given  him,  the  advice  that  he  should 
gain  Miss  Talbot's  heart  if  he  could. 
At  least  he  only  remembere<l  it  as 
a  superfluous  sort  of  thing,  re- 
ininthng  himself  as  he  did  so  that 
signs  were  not  wanting  to  jirove 
that  the  '  endeavour'  would  Ik)  a 
work  of  supererogation,  sinct;  Trixy's 
heart  was  already  manifestly  well- 
disposed  towards  him.  Trixy  Tal- 
bot had  it  not  in  her  to  carry  on 
the  war  against  an  intruder's  sus- 
picion of  liis  intrusion  on  a  secluded 
scene  being  an  untoward  event,  in 
the  way  Blanche  was  doing  it  now. 
He  could  but  admire  her,  and  her 
perfect  acting  of  a  part  for  which 
she  would  never  have  Ix-en  cast  if 
the  choice  had  been  given  her. 

One  grand  condition  of  woman's 
success  was  always  hers ;  she  dressed 
with  a  perfect  taste  that  always 
gave  her  a  feeling  of  security  and 
ease.  She  never  permitted  herself 
to  be  liable  to  the  weakening  influ- 
ence of  the  knowledge  tliat  her 
effort  was  marred  by  an  unpraceful 
line  or  an  unbecoming  colour.  It 
is  next  to  impossible  for  a  woman 
to  be  anything  but  awkward  in  a 
costume  that  violates  the  harmony 
of  either  proportion  or  hue.  Blanche 
never  did  herself  so  much  injustice 
as  to  let  herself  bo  put  at  such  a 
disadvantage. 

So  now  she  moved  along  secure 
in  the  primary  condition  of  ease — 
she  knew  that  from  every  point  f)f 
view  she  looked  well.  Iler  luxuriant 
rippling  hair  was  banded  with  fillets 
of  the  jKxlest  clearest  laauve  ribl)on; 
her  transparent  floating  dress  was 
of  the  same  colour ;  her  waist  was 
well  defined  by  a  satin  band,  and 
the  lace  round  her  throat  and  wrists 
wa.s  narrow,  neat,  and  straight 
enough  to  satisfy  the  most  rigidly 
tidy.  As  she  walked  she  raised  her 
dress  a  little  in  front,  and  then  com- 
ing out  from  under  the  wliitedraperj 
were  seen  a  pair  of  small,  highly- 
arched  feet  cased  in  bla('k-ribl)e<l 
silk  shoes.  Both  these  men  who 
looked  upon  her  were  artists,  and 
though  f)ne  preferred  painting  wild 
waves  to  women,  it  was  hard  to  say 
who.se  taste  she  most  thoroughly 
satisfied. 

'  I)id  you  ride  far,  Frank?'  Lionel 
asked,  as  they  got  them.selves  ir 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


667 


line  and  turned  towards  the  house. 
Then  ho  reraembored  that  his  ques- 
tion might  seem  to  them  to  savour 
of  a  desire  to  know  how  long  they 
had  been  together,  and  he  was  has- 
tening to  add, '  1  mean  how  did  she 
carry  you?'  when  Blanche  calmly 
answered — 

'He  could  not  have  ridden  far, 
for  he  has  been  back  with  me  a  long 
time.  I  went  out  to  the  stable-yard 
to  meet  him,  and  then  was  gracious 
enough  to  come  on  here,  risking  a 
sun-stroke  without  my  hat;  you 
never  can  be  sufficiently  grateful  to' 
me,  Frank.' 

She  said  this  by  way  of  proving 
to  Lionel  that  there  really  was  no- 
thing behind  this  outward  show 
which  had  evidently  rather  discom- 
posed him  when  he  came  upon 
them  by  the  lake.  He  will  under- 
stand that  if  there  were  anything 
particular  to  me  in  Frank's  having 
come  back  to  me  soon,  that  I  should 
not  have  mentioned,  she  thought, 
and  simultaneously  Lionel  was 
thinking.  She  is  honest,  at  least ; 
she  wishes  me  to  at  once  under- 
stand the  terms  they  stand  on  with 
each  other. 

'I  rode  far  enough  to  find  the 
mare  perfect,  worthy  even  of  the 
one  for  whom  I  design  her.' 

'  What  a  conventional  expression, 
Frank;  I  hope  the  one  for  whom 
you  design  her  will  give  more  of 
her  attention  to  the  gift  than  to  the 
manner  of  the  giving  unless  you 
strike  out  some  more  original  form 
of  words.' 

'  You  are  the  best  judge  of  that.' 

'  Of  what  ?  How  vague  you  are ; 
well,  never  mind  your  meaning 
now ;  I  want  to  say  something  to 
Mr.  Talbot  while  I  remember  it; 
how  very  few  people  speak  closely 
— say  just  what  they  mean,  and  no 
more.' 

'  Edgar  does,  I  think,'  Lionel  re- 
plied. 

'  Yes,  Edgar,  Mr.  Talbot,  does  in- 
deed ;  he  says  out  his  meaning  a 
little  more  plainly  than  is  well  at 
all  times ;  Frank  never  does,  of 
course  not;  he  flatters,  don't  you, 
Frank  ?'  she  questioned,  laughingly. 

'  You  say  so.' 

'And  yours  is  not  close  to  your 
meaning  conversation,  Mr.  Talbot,' 


she  continued ;  '  it's  suggestive  talk 
— the  best  of  all.' 

'  Now  that  you  come  to  critically 
analyse  the  nature  of  my  conversa- 
tion, I  remember  tliat  I  say  very 
little,'  Lionel  replied. 

'  Shows  what  an  attentive  listener 
you  have  in  Miss  Lyon  that  that 
little  has  made  such  an  impression 
on  her,'  Frank  Bathurst  put  in, 
good-humoured  ly.  There  was  an 
utter  lack  of  jealousy,  and  of  all 
the  littlenesses  that  proceed  from 
jealousy,  about  this  man  that  was 
infinitely  taking. 

'I  like  suggestive  talk  and  sug- 
gestive verse,'  Blanche  went  on, 
stoutly  disregarding  Frank's  impli- 
cation ;  '  that  is  why  I  like  "  The 
Wanderer,"  and  all  the  rest  of  his 
books.' 

'All  the  rest  of  whose  books? 
"The  Wanderer's?"  I  don't  know 
him.' 

'  No,  Owen  ^Meredith's.' 

Frank  laughed,  and  affected  to 
shiver. 

'  Save  me  from  suggestions  of 
early  loves  with  primrose  faces  who 
suddenly  start  up  from  graves  imder 
cypress  trees  to  disturb  a  man's 
peace  of  mind  when  he  is  enjoying 
"  Trovatore  "  in  Paris ;  you  have  a 
ghoulish  taste  if  you  incline  to  him 
— I  am  not  with  you  there.' 

'  Are  you  not  with  me  in  my  ad- 
miration—no, not  my  admiration — 
my  love  for  that  poem,  Mr.  Talbot?' 

He  shook  his  head. 

'  I  don't  think  I  either  love  or  ad- 
mire the  mixture  of  the  very  com- 
monplace and  the  impossible.' 

'  But  then  nothing  commonplace 
has  a  place  in  that  poem;  it's  all 
love,  and  luxury,  and  light. 

Lionel  laughed. 

'  The  love  of  Paris,  and  the  light 
of  gas,  and  the  luxury  an  uphol- 
sterer's apprentice  can  catalogue ; 
no,  no,  it's  garish;  you  will  feel  it 
to  be  so  if  you  compare  it  with  the 
supernatural  element  that  comes 
out  so  gravely  in  "  Faust,"  for  in- 
stance ;  there  is  a  noble  suggestive- 
ness  about  that  which  all  who  run 
cannot  read,  unfortunately.' 

'  Say  fortunately,  rather.  "  Faust " 
is  not  for  the  masses,'  Blanche  said, 
letting  her  head  go  up  haughtily. 

'  Pardon  me,  it  is  for  all  humanity; 


558 


Plnying  for  High  Stahpn. 


it  is  lilvO  one  of  tlic  prcat  Bihlo 
f-tories  to  iiii'— n  tliinp;  to  Ix)  road 
humbly  niifl  snloninly.' 

'  Fancy  nailiiip  nnythinp  lliat  a 
man  wrotu  who  was  addicted  to 
luartren<ling  flirtations  l)ct\vcen  hiph 
rows  of  well-covered  pei-sticks, 
with  plump  (Jernian  maidens,  liuin- 
hly  and  solemnly!'  Frank  saiil, 
scoffinK'y. 

'He  was  essentially  human,' 
Blanche  said,  apoloRefically ;  'for 
all  his  prreat  penius  one  can  pet  near 
to  him  after  remiiiip  that  wonderful 
hiopraphy-he  was  so  very  lnunaii.' 
'  lie  was  essentially  selfi>h,'  Frank 
put  in,  warmly,  '  au'i  rather  mean 
uhout  it,  I  can't  help  thinkinp,  after 
veailinp  that  wcmdeiful  biography 
which  has  Uiriied  your  brain  a 
little,  Blanche:  whenever  distracted 
maidens  or  prud.  nt  parents  f-oupht 
to  lirinphim  to  biok,  he  took  refuge 
in  the  clouds,  as  it  were,  soared  up 
to  Parnassus,  an  1  roosted  there 
until  the  storm  blew  over.' 

'  His  shortcomings  ought  to  be 
glosf-ed  over,  ought  they  not,  Mr. 
Talbot?'  Blanche  a<:ked. 

'  I  think  not,'  ho  replied;  'surely 
not  "glossed  over ;"  you  do  not  mean 
that;  but  regarded  as  evidences  of 
how  the  mighty  may  fall,  and  as 
special  rcason>i  for  lesser  ones  to 
continually  pray  against  being  led 
into  temptation.' 

'  After  all,  genial  follies  are  readily 
forgiven,'  Fn-nk  said,  with  an  a'>rupt 
change  of  feeliiigs  about  the  subject 
under  di8cus.sion. 

'  Yes,  by  tho>e  who  do  not  suiTer 
from  them,'  Blanche  said,  hojiing 
that  the  amendment  would  find 
favour  in  Lionel'-  eyes. 

'  And  even  I'v  those  who  do  suffer 
from  tluni;  they  blamed  not  tlio 
bar"4,  though  he  did  them  most 
frigid  fully  amiss,'  Frank  jmt  in, 
afliilily  ;  '  he  was  his  own  ideal  man, 
and  he  makes  the  ideal  woman  wail 
lor  him  in  her  dying  ngony— those 
la^t  words!  it  was  worth  being  born 
to  have  heard  them.' 

'  Last  words!  how  grand  some 
such  utterances  have  been!  "  Jb)re 
light."  The  Fcntence  is  a  poem  in 
itself ' 

'Tho  craving  for  fuller  intellec- 
tual satisfa -tion,  for  clearer  mental 
vision,  apiK;ul.s  to  you,'  Lionel  paid 


to  Blanche.  'Do  you  rememlxr 
some  that  are  equally  striking  in  a 
simpler  way? — the  last  words  of  the 
Christian  gvntleman  who  said  in  his 
dying  hour  to  his  son'iii-law,  "  Be 
pond,  my  ilear!"  I  like  them  better 
than  any  others  I  have  ever  heard; 
they  are  in  tluniselvesa  full,  perfect, 
and  sullicieut  rule  of  life— it's  all 
summed  up  in  those  four  simple 
words.' 

'After  all,  it  is  easy  enough,' 
Fmnk  said,  in  his  softest  tones,  and 
with  his  suavost  smile;  'it  is  my 
opinion  that  the  temptations  to  go 
astray  are  extraordinary.  I  very 
rarely  leave  undone  what  I  ought  to 
do,  and  I  don't  think  I  sigh  to  do 
what  I  ought  not,  and  1  am  not 
exceptional.' 

'  You  arc  exceptionally  well  .'•atis- 
fied  with  your  own  success  in  doing 
right,'  I'.liiiiehe  rej)lied,  'and  that  is 
a  fault  to  start  witli.' 

'Never  mind,  T  mean  well," Frank 
answered  ;  'we  all  mean  well,  espe- 
cially your  mannna,  Blanche.' 
Blanche  smiled  and  frowned. 
'  I  wish  we  all  meant  as  well  as 
mamma,'  she  said,  soberly;  'we 
should  not,  in  that  case,  mystify  one 

another  painfully  for  long ' 

'  Are  we  any  of  us  mystifying 
each  other  ]iainfully  now,  may  I 
ask?'  ]Mr.  Bathurst  interrupted.  '  I 
think  that  at  least  I  am  free  of  that 
charge.  I  am  open  as  the  day;  no 
one  could  long  l)e  in  doubt  as  to  my 
intentions  about  an\  tiling.' 

'  You  are  advancing  your  claim 
to  tho  sin  of  conceit  every  moment, 
is  ho  not,  Mr.  Tallx)t?  Now  I  will 
name  another  of  your  faults  for 
your  penitential  consideration — you 
are  lazy,  otherwi.se  the  second  ^\\\y- 
ject  fro'n  "  'I'annhaiiser  "  would  1)0 

finished  by  this ' 

'  Which  I  deny.  I  am  acting  on 
the  advice  of  tho  disinterested  art- 
critics,  who  so  strenuously  recom- 
mcmled  me  to  lie  fallow  for  a  tiine. 
By  Jove!  if  the  law  of  comjK-nsation 
works  at  all,  what  warm  quarters 
will  1)0  awarded  by-aiid-by  to  some 
of  those  fellows  who  have  most  jx'r- 
sistently  thrown  cold  water  on 
aspiring  art  an<i  literature.' 

'  We  shall  be  better  for  it  in  tlio 
futun>,'  Lionel  said,  including  him- 
self, l)y  the  sjiecch  in  tho  oust igation 


t 


Playing  for  High  StnJces, 


659 


which  Frank  iniplicd  tliat  he  had 
received  at  critic  i!  hands. 

'  Vou  ncefl  not,'  Blanche  said, 
qnifklv  and  nnadviseilly. 

He  iookel  gratetidly  at  her;  bnt 
at  the  same  tune  lie  gave  her  hack 
her  flattery  by  saying-  — 

'  If  you  conld  make  me  believe 
that,  iViiss  Lyon,  yon  would  rob  me 
ot  the  aim  that  is  best  worth  living 
for -the  desire  and  the  hope  of  arl- 
vancing.  1  shall  have  lived  my  life, 
and  lived  it  to  miserable  purpose, 
when  I  shall  sit  down  satistitd  with 
what  I  have  done!' 

'  You  wall  be  satisfied  with  what 
you  have  done,  if,  two  years  hence, 
you  can  get  ten  tlionsand  pounds 
tor  one  picture,  tor  the  central  figure 
of  wiiich  >onr  wife  has  sat  for  a 
model,'  Fiank  said,  going  round 
and  leaning  liis  ariu  on  his  friend's 
shonl'ler. 

'  That  is  yonr  low  view  of  it.  Mr. 
Talbot  will  want  more,  and  will_  get 
more  than  you  can  realize  or  ima- 
gine.' 

'  You  are  a  nice  sybil  wlien^you 
peer  into  tiie  fuUire  for  him.  !<>  an 
my  low  and  sordid  point  of  view 
ten  thousand  pounds  ]s  not  so  des- 
picable, and  1  can  p  rtectly  realize 
its  delights.' 

'  Mercenary- minded  man !  You 
to  set  up  a  claim  fn-  being  an  aes- 
thetic artist,  and  not  to  hope  for 
something  iar  above  gold  for  yonr 
friend!' 

'The  smiles  and  approbation  of 
Miss  Lyon !' 

'  He "  has  them  already,'  Blanche 
said,  coldly. 

'  "  And  woman's  pmile  for  ever  hath 
A  spell  to  nmlce  ambition  sleep," 

somebody  Jias  said.  Avoid  the 
danger,  Lai !' 

'  No  woman's  smile  will  make  his 
aml'ition  sleep,'  Blanche  answered, 
interlacing  her  tiugers,  and  putting 
tiiem  up  before  her  eyes  to  make  a 
more  complete  screen  from  the  sun, 
as  they  came  out  on  to  the  open 
lawn  close  to  the  house,  '  liecause 
any  woman  whose  smile  he  could 
caie  for  would  wake  his  ambition 
even  more  if  possible  ;  would  it  not 
be  so,  Mr.  Talbot?' 

'  It  she  cared  to  do  so,'  he  replied. 
•  But  1  think  some  mistake  was  made 


in  the  incantation  yesterday.  The 
spell  you  tried  to  throw  over  Frank 
has  fallen  on  me  instend.' 

'What  portion  of  it?'  she  asked, 
with  a  glowing  face. 

'  No  woman's  love  shall  Uglit  on  thee, 
No  woman's  heart  be  thiii'-.' 

She  trembled  iu  every  nerve  as 
he  spoke,  and  had  she  been  alone 
with  him  she  would  have  spoken 
some  words  then  that  would  have 
broken  the  ice  between  them,  dis- 
solved the  spell  he  named,  and 
brought  a  kinder  one  into  being. 
But  Frank  was  round  by  her  side 
again,  and  so  she  coidd  only  hope 
that  silence  would  indeed  be  golden.' 

So  slie  stood  for  a  few  moments, 
wishing  and  willing,  with  all  the 
force  of  her  soul  and  mind,  that 
something  w^ould  occur  to  take 
Frank  away  from  them,  if  only  for 
a  minute.  This  opportunity  passed, 
the  passion  which  possessed  her 
might  iiass  into  a  phase  of  fear  of 
results  from  which  she  was  strangely 
free  at  this  moment.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  a  crisis  had  come  now  when 
she  might  fah'ly  give  some  un- 
mistakeable  sign  of  her  love  for 
Lionel,  without  compromising  her 
feminine  delicacy  and  dignity  But 
she  could  not  do  it  with  Frank 
standing  by ;  and  Frank  looked  so 
well  inclined  to  stand  by  the  whole 
time. 

'  Thou  art  so  near,  and  j'et  so  far,' 

she  half  sang.  '  Do  you  know  tliat 
song,  Mr.  Talbot?' 

'  Yes  ;  Frank  sings  it,'  he  replied  ; 
and  Frank,  on  this,  began— 

■  Beloved  eye,  beloved  star, 
Thou  art  so  near,  and  3'et  so  far,' 

in  a  voice  that,  Orpheus-like,  might 
have  softened  the  rocks  and  trees ; 
but  that,  as  evidencing  the  probabi- 
lity of  liis  remaining  longer  with 
them,  hardened  Miss  Lyon's  heart 
against  him  yet  more  and  more. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CAUSE   FOR  DOUBT 

Given  certain  conditions,  and  every 
woman,  however  httle  of  a  diplo- 
matist she  may  be  naturally,  will 
make  a  subtle  scheme,  and  carry  it 
with  a  bold  stroke.    Blanche  Lyon 


5r,o 


Playing  for  Bujh  Stakes. 


hore  the  restraint  until  she  conld 
l>ear  it  no  longer,  ami  then,  the  con- 
ditions l)t;iii^  ^'irt'iti  tl,  slif  devtlojKHl 
and  c'Xfcutcd  her  schomo  in  an  in- 
stant. 

'  Frank,'  she  exclaimed,  suddenly, 
'  will  von  do  mo  a  fjrcat  favour?' 

'  \Vill  I  nut?     What  is  it?' 

'Go  a-ul  lo>)k  for  a  copy  of  that 
song  tlia^  is  set  for  two  voices — you 
will  find  it  in  the  leather  caso  on  tho 
piano --and  pcraiiadti  Miss  Talhot 
to  come  out  hero  and  sing  it  with 
me.' 

Flank  lounged  forward  a  few 
steps  towards  tho  door.  Then  ho 
evolve  1  a  better  plan,  as  ho  thouglit, 
and  lounged  hack  again. 

'  You  hud  better  come  in ;  it  re- 
quires the  accompaniment?' 

She  stated  hersi;lf  on  tho  base  of 
a  huge  stone  vase,  full  of  geraniums. 
'  I  have  mule  up  my  inind  to  sing  it 
out  here.'  she  said,  resolutely.  '  No, 
Mr.  Tallw)t,  don't  you  go,  please.  I 
haveal-o  made  up  my  mind  to  exer- 
cise so  much  cousiidy  authority  as 
to  make  Frank  fetch  mo  one  little 
song  when  I  ask  him.' 

'  Frank  resigns  himself  entirely 
to  your  commands.  Being  a  gone 
'coon,  I  have  no  appeal.' 

'  Fulfil  the  whole  of  vour  mission, 
now,' JJlanchc  crie<l  after  him.  'Per- 
suade ;\Iis8  Talbot  to  come,  or  tho 
copy  for  two  voices  will  bo  no  use.' 

'  I  fly,'  he  shouted  ba'rK,  laugh- 
ingly; and  then  he  went  on  into  the 
house,  and  Lionel  and  Blanche  wore 
alone  at  last.  She  wa.s  mistress  of 
the  position,  and  still  she  could 
not  seize  it. 

If  only  he  would  have  looked  at 
htr!  But  he  did  not.  lie  stood 
liKjking  away  into  tho  distance,  with 
a  quiet,  tamest  expressio:i  of  face, 
that  made  her  fear  that  she  was  not 
in  his  thoughts — a  far-olT  look,  an 
ab  oibed  loik— and  Frank  would 
be  sure  to  lio  back  in  a  minute. 

•  Mr.  Talbot:' 

lie  lookefl  nmnd  at  her  now,  a.s  she 
f-at  leaning  forward,  lur  arms  folded 
on  her  laj),  her  lit  ad  thrown  nji, 
autl  her  eyes  earnestly  bent  upon 
him.  As  he  met  lur  gaze  f-ho  was 
satisfietl  of  ono  thing,  and  that  wa.s 
that  however  it  had  Ikxju  a  moment 
before,  she  was  very  much  in  his 
thoughts  no  \. 


'  You  have  been  with  your  brother' 
(she  could  not  da.sh  at  her  subject, 
and  give  him  tlie  word  that  should 
bo  a  sign  of  her  love,  as  she  in- 
tended), '  and  you  have  heard ' 

She  pauseil.  She  meant  that  he 
had  heard  of  Rdi^ar's  ruin;  and  the 
thought  of  that  ruin,  and  all  the 
evil  train  of  consei|uences  it  might 
bring  u)iin  the  IMbots,  choked  her. 
lie  attributed  her  emotion  to  the 
wrong  cau-se;  he  thought  she  meant 
to  offer  .some  explanation  to  him,  as 
Edgar  Talbot's  brotlu  r,  as  to  her  re- 
jection of  Edgar  Talbot's  offer.  So 
when  she  paused  he  said  — 

'  Yes,  he  told  me,  and  I  am  very 
sorry  for  him.  I  feel  for  him  very 
deeply  ami  truly.' 

'  And  not  for  yourself  at  all  ?' 

lie  colon  red  fast  and  furiously, 
up  even  to  his  brow,  at  her  question; 
it  scemtd  to  him  such  a  strange  ono 
to  come  iwm  Blanche  on  such  a 
subject  as  he  believed  her  to  be 
spi  aking  of. 

•  For  myself,  I  can  bear  the  hard- 
est things.' 

'  I  know  that ;  and  bear  them 
beautifnily.  As  I  said  to  your 
brother,  when — when  he  was  speak- 
ing to  me  the  other  night,  women's 
wonls,  and  ways,  and  wills,  are  so 
weak,  when  we  would  give  our  lifo 
to  serve,  we  can  do  nothing  but 
sorrow.' 

He  lx!gnn  to  understand  her  now, 
and  to  feel  that  .she  was  more  di- 
rectly referring  to  their  loss  of 
worldly  wealth,  and  to  tho  possible 
blight  it  might  be  on  his  career. 

'Sorrow  and  you  should  not  bo 
named  on  the  .same  day.  Miss  Lyon; 
Init  your  sympathy  is  very  sweet  to 
me.' 

'  Sorrow  and  I  have  clasped  hands 
often,'  she  answered  f-oberly.  '  You 
do  not  quite  realize  that  I  have  had 
all  my  life  to  take  most  earnest  heed 
and  thought  for  myself  and  others. 
1  seem  to  you  to  be— just  what  I 
seem,  in  fact.' 

'And  you  can  bo  nothing  better.** 
There  was  no  idle  flattering  tone  in 
his  words.  She  knew  that  he  meant 
them  thoroughly,  and  her  heart 
ltt,'at  h'gh.  '  You  can  feel  that,  and 
say  it  of  mo?  Then  I  have  not 
lived,  and  striven,  and  endeavoured 
to  '  l>o  good,"  in  vain.' 


Playing  for  High  SiaJcea. 


561 


'  Nor  wonlfl  it  liavo  1iecn  in  vain 
even  if  I  hm\  not  felt  that  truth  and 
worded  it,'  he  said,  kindly.  '  My 
approbation  wonid  have  been  a  mtaa 
guerdon  to  strive  for.' 

'  The  best  I  could  have.'  Then 
she  rose  up,  and  temptation  iKiver 
came  to  a  man  in  a  fairer  gui.se  than 
it  did  to  Lionel  Talbot  then,  to  speak 
out  and  tell  her  that  he  loved  her. 
But  he  wrestled  with  it  for  two  or 
three  reasons  ;  amongst  others,  this 
latel>-born  one,  t  hat,  while  his  sisters 
needed  his  aid,  he  must  not  charge 
himself  with  a  wife,  even  if  the 
woman  he  wanted  was  willing  to  be 
that  wifo.  So  he  struggled  to  seem 
indifferent  to  that  which  almost  up- 
set his  judgment,  as  Blanche  made 
a  step  or  two  towards  him,  telling 
him  that  his  approbation  was  the 
best  guerdon  she  could  have— and 
meaning  it  too ;  of  that  he  felt  con- 
vinced. 

'  Oh,  gentle  time,  give  back  to  me 
one  hour  which  thou  hast  tal^en! 
Blanche  often  thon^^ht  in  after  d.a\s, 
when  she  recalled  this  hour,  and  the 
poor  use  she  had  been  enabled  to 
make  of  it.  For  at  this  juncture 
Fi"auk  and  Beatrix  came  out  to  them, 
Frank  hilariously  carolling,  as  be- 
came one  who  was  never  defeated, 
never  heart- sick,  never  doubtful  as 
to  the  blooming  issue  of  all  his 
brightest  hopes.  And  Beatrix,  with 
the  unsati-fied  look  on  her  face  that 
is  iniiicati  veof  feeling  aggrieved  with 
oneself  for  one's  weakness  in  grant- 
ing the  small  reqxiests  of  the  loved 
one  who  abstains  from  making  large 
demands.  It  was  impossible  for 
Beatrix  to  refnse  any  favour  or 
concession  asked  of  her  by  Frank; 
and  she  knew  that  it  was,  and  was 
indignant  with  herself  for  its  being 
go  ;  and  still  she  could  not  help  her- 
self, bat  went  whithersoever,  and 
did  whatsoever  he  asked  of  her.  It 
was  stinging  to  her,  this  being 
looked  up  and  required  at  the  last, 
when  Frank  had  been  away  for  a 
whole  sutmy  hour  (perfectly  obli- 
vious of  her)  by  the  lake  with 
Blanche.  It  came  even  to  the  truo 
hearted,  noble-natured  Trixy  to 
hate  Blanche,  as  she  came  upon 
the  latter  'standing  and  charming 
Lionel,'  as  Trixy  worded  the  situa- 
tion to  lurself,'  when  Mr.  Bathurst 

VOL.  XI.— NO.  XI-VI. 


was  not  by.  She  did  n.>t  Ruppo.se 
for  one  instant  that  Blamhe  was  in 
an  equally  evil  ca^^c  with  herself. 
Our  own  [u-ivate  grit  f  is  alwa^ys  the 
mightiest  in  the  world,  iicfure  which 
all  others  dwarf  themselves  to  the 
meanest  propi  irtions. 

'  I  am  not  very  much  in  the  mood 
for  singing,  Init  I  came  out,  as  you 
sent  for  me,'  Trixy  said,  as  she  came 
up  to  them  ;  and  then  B'an'ihe,  wiu) 
really  could  afford  to  be  generous 
and  tolerant  towards  Tiixy,  put  her 
hands  kindly  on  the  girl's  shoulders 
and  said,  almost  in  a  whisjier— 

'  Please  don't  think  me  heartless 
and  thoughtless,  dear,  but  your 
brother  will  not  bear  fiiis  bad  blow 
the  better  for  seeing  you  deprfssed 
by  it ;  forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  think 
less  sorrowfidly  of  it  than  I  have 
thought— will  you.  will  you?' 

She  was  so  strangely  winning  as 
she  spoke  in  her  earnest,  pleading 
tones,  with  all  the  force  of  her  tar- 
nest,  winning  beauty,  that  Trixy 
felt  much  happier. 

'I  think  I  could  forgive  you  al- 
most anything,'  she  said,  aiJection- 
ately,  and  Blanche  laughed,  and 
rejjlied — 

'  Tn  that  one  little  speech  you 
made  a  couple  of  provisos  ;  however, 
forgive  me  for  having  sent  for  you 
now,  and  let  me  sing  second  to  you.' 

They  sang  the  song  '  gloriously,' 
as  Frank  declared,  and  again  he 
found  himself  very  strongly  directed 
towards  Miss  Talbot.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  time  enough,  he  told 
himself,  to  make  resolutions  and 
carry  them  when  the  glorious  sum- 
mer, during  which  one  should  only 
feel  and  exist,  was  over.  So  the 
sybarite  snatched  the  hour,  and 
pleased  himself  according  to  his 
Wont  in  being  very  jjlcasant  to  them 
both.  And  i31anche's  heart  ached 
horribly  because  she  saw  that  Lionel 
fancied  she  overrated  her  gay 
cousin's  devotion. 

By-and-by  Mrs.  Lyon  came  home 
from  her  tour  of  inspection  over  the 
cottage  that  was  to  let  in  the  vil- 
lage. '  It  was  the  very  thing  she 
should  like  for  herself,'  she  said, 
'  and  she  was  almost  sorry  that  any- 
body else  should  be  going  to  live 
there;  the  garden  was  the  vejy 
style  of  garden  that  was  most  plcas- 

2  O 


662 


Playing  for  Iligh  Stdhes. 


inp  to  her,  and  tlic  grcciiliouso 
woulil  iHi  lovtl}'  when  rciiairctl;  as 
to  the  l.onso,  well,  .slic  uuver  \ui[ 
likiil  liOiiiloii  liDUsis,  and  shei-liould 
hku  tlieni  nuw  loss  tlian  ever:  jiivo 
her  u  pliii'o  in  tlio  country  wluro 
you  were  not  overlooked,  tliiit  was 
all  slie  asKed.' 

'I  think  I  should  like  it  too,' 
Beatrix  said,  demurely. 

'  Liet  yiiur  lnutlier  to  ta'-e  it  for 
your  autumn  <iuarters,  Mi^s  Tall)nt,' 
Frank  ixdaimel.  Ho  had  \et  to 
learn  that  some  such  change  of  rc- 
sidint-e  woidd  Ihj  a  ma'ter  of  neces- 
sity, not  choice,  with  the  Talliots. 

'Dj  you  know,'  Blanche  whi'^- 
pcred  to  Beatrix,  'that  it  will  bo 
just  as  well  to  manage  all  this  with- 
out telling  the  truth  to  mamma? 
I  know  evirything,  Trixy  dear,  and 
1  thought  of  sending  maiiiina  to 
look  at  that  house  for  an  imaginaiy 
friend  ;  the  concealment  is  harmle.-s 
enough.  Do  you  agiee  to  letting 
her  think  that  her  wishes  weigU  iu 
the  matter?' 

'  If  that  plan  is  decided  upon,' 
Trixy  said,  dui)ioiisly;  and  as  the 
other  three  were  all  speaking  ani- 
matedly at  once  on  the  superior  ad- 
vantages of  the  country  over  the 
toAn,  the  conver.'^ation  between  t..o 
two  jjiils  was  unheard. 

'  Why  hhi)\ild  it  not  ho  decided 
upf)U?'  I'.lanche  (lueslioned,  eagerly. 
'  If  you  like  it,  why  should  you  nut 
slay  here  where  ycm  can  have  liuman 
C)m])inii)nshii)  when  you  ftel  iu- 
dineil?  i\lr.  T.dl>ot  wi.shes  my 
mother  to  live  with  you  still ;  it 
would  l»e  very  dull  for  you  in  a 
."♦range  country  i)lacc  with  her 
alone  ;  here  you  will  have  my  cousin 
and  your  luotlur  Lionel  oliin.' 

'Anil  you  always?'  Trixy  tried 
to  say  it  joyfully. 

'  No,  indeed,  me  but  very  rarely  ; 
I  sliall  go  out  in  the  world  again.' 
'Trixy's  (yes  (pustioned  '  U  hy  ?' 
'  Oli.it's'not  (in'y  men  who  must 
work  in  these  nineteenth  (untury 
days,'  Blanclio  said,  smiling;  'I 
rather  like  the  nee«ssity,  too.  I 
Ixdieve  I  have  more  of  tbo  bee  than 
the  liutterHy  in  me.' 

'  Then  1  shall    lose  you,'  Trixy 

said. 

Blanche  looked  grave. 

'  Will  you  promise  never  to  lose 


your   liking  for  me?— I  am    very 
gricdy  of  that.' 

'  Tlieie  is  nothing  that  could  hap- 
pen that  could  m  d<i)  me  not  like 
you,  1  think,'  Ikatiix  rep  ieil,  and 
she  did  not  quite  mean  what  sbo 
said. 

'  riiero  can  nothing  happen  to 
givo  you  cause  lor  liking  me  less,' 
J'.lai die  answered,  heartily;  and  sho 
did  mean  what  she  said,  and  did 
wish  to  give  Beatrix  some  comfort- 
ing assurance  res|iectiiig  Fiank  at 
the  same  time.  Then  they  all  got 
tlemselves  together  a>;ain,  and 
talked  about  the  cottage  m  the  vil- 
lage, which,  to  use  fthv.  Lyon's 
Words,  '  was  the  very  place  she 
wished  to  live  and  oio  in.'  And 
pnsintly  Edgar  came  out  to  join 
them,  and  it  was  i)ro|os(d  and 
carriid  by  universal  consent  that 
th.y  should  all  drive  down  after 
luncheon  and  judge  ot  the  merits 
of  t'le  dwelling  for  themselves. 

'I  have  luard  fiom  Marian  to- 
day,' Edgar  Tabot  said,  when  lun- 
cheon was  U' arly  over.  '  ^5lle  pre- 
tends to  be  iu  great  distress  about 
her  liusbiind's  niece;  tiitro  was 
some  soit  of  understamling  or  en- 
gage iiient  between  the  girl  and  some 
joiing  fellow  in  the  country, and, as 
usual,  Mrs.  Sutton  has  maned  the 
liannony.' 

'  What  lias  sho  done?'  they  all 
asked,  eagerly.  The  tale  of  how  the 
course  of  true  love  has  Inin  made 
to  run  roughly  always  meets  with 
an  attentive  audience 

'Oh,  she  Sfieaks  ns  the  injured 
one-  a  sure  sign  with  Marian  that 
she  has  been  vejy  much  to  blame. 
Even  Mark  is  angry,  and  that  is  a 
state  of  things  that  does  not  at  all 
agree  with  Mrs.  Sutton.' 

'  Your  sister  is  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  women  I  ever  met/ 
Frank  Uathurst  said,  good-natur- 
edly. 

'So  I  have  heard,'  Edgar  replied. 
'Well,  her  latest  fascinations  have 
l)e«n  exercised  in  making  a  good, 
honest,  foolish  young  fellow  un- 
liaj)|iy,  and  in  proving  to  him  that 
"eveiy  woman  is  a  rake  at  heart;" 
we  have  every  rta-on  to  bi'  ))r()ud 
of  our  sister's  genius  for  making 
|)eople  miserable.' 
lie    spoke     very    bitterly,    Jor 


Playing  for  High  Stalces. 


5C3 


Marian's  letter  liad  been  very  bitter 
to  him.  Slie  liad  reviled  him  for 
that  which  he  could  not  help,  his 
own  ruin,  namely,  and  she  had  up- 
braided liim  for  Iiavinji;  wasted  her 
husband's  and  lier  husband's  sister's 
money.  After  a  paye  or  two  of  this 
matter  ?he  had  f;one  on  to  tell  him 
how  a  misunderstanding  had  arisen 
between  her  niece  Ellen  and  the 
young  man  to  whom  Ellen  was  en- 
gaged, and  she  had  appended  to 
this  statement  a  fentence  which  liad 
grated  more  harshly  than  all  her 
reviliogs  upon  her  brother's  feel- 
ings. 

'He  came  up  to  town  a  day  or 
two  ago  to  reproach  me,  I  believe  ; 
but  unwittiugly  I  gave  a  sop  to 


Cerberus,  and  now  ho  would  under- 
go the  tortiirts  of  a  row  with  his 
lad .V love  every  week,  provided  the 
reconciliation  scene  may  take  place 
under  my  auspices;  he  is  really  a 
perfect  Apollo,  and  only  wants 
polishing  to  make  him  the  most 
perfect  cavalier  in  the  row.' 

This  Wiis  tlie  jiaragraph  in  her 
letter  that  mo-t  sorely  wounded  her 
brother;  these  were  the  sentiments 
that  made  him  say  bitterly  that  they 
had  every  reason  to  be  proud  of 
Marian.  It  sceme  1  good  to  Lionel 
to  change  the  to])ic,  which  he  did 
by  asking— 

'H'lW  shall  we  divide  ourselves 
to  go  down  to  the  village  ?' 


VOL.  SI. — NO.  XLVI. 


564 

LEAVING  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 
(Illustrated  from  tiie  Painting  uy  Tissot.) 

IF,  in  tlicso  dnys  of  blozo  nnd  poM, 
Winn  i5tr«.n;;th  is  wcil  to  nil  tliiiip;s  fair; 
Wlirn  flowcrM  nnd  p^onli^C(l  I'luit  i  nfuld 
Tlu'  liisl  wt  ]irini(li()o(l  of  tlii'  yrar ; 
Wli.  n  lii-ty  June  s-lnlks  Inr^'i  ly  f.irth 

■\Vitli  1)1  i^'lit  tlifiant  (step  tliftt  spurns, 
Crual.iii'-'  till'  nc-atnics  of  tlic  noitb. 
And  nil  the  vanquished  east  o'eiturns  : 

If,  v\liil.>t  lie  wnlks  tho  earth,  bifrirt 

With  Ii is' jewelled  wonders  K'Ven, 
Bcaiity  dropped  from  liis  shininR  ^kirt. 

Then  rose  to  float,  twixt  larlli  nnd  hcavon: 
If,  for  the  youiipc  food's  lonely  state 

A  pa;;:in  ])ity  turned  to  thee. 
Worship  would  name  liis  fitting  mate  — 

Tliytclf,  as  pure  and  grand  as  he. 
If,  in  some  nndimmed  Paradise, 

Virgin  of  blight  nnd  eloud  nnd  storm, 
A  glorious  vision  met  our  eyes. 

The  vision  of  tliy  peerless  form  ; 
Our  reverent  tongue  had  stinight  confessed 

Tlie  nngel-spir.t  of  the  plncc. 
That,  wlu  re  it  flitted,  nil  lliin;.'S  blessed 

"With  btniidess  pence  and  spotless  grace. 

Or  if,  witbin  n  low(  r  world. 

Where  in  their  vain  and  painted  prido 
Thi-  iiisi  ets  of  an  hour  were  hurled 

Now  here,  now  (here,  by  Fn.-hion's  tide; 
"Where  biighte.-t  eyes  were  wild  with  praiso; 

Win  re  ears  on  tabled  pissions  bung  ; 
Feigned  raptures  sjjrnn^j;  at  benuly's  gaze. 

And  flattery  was  the  vulgar  tongue  : 
Tin  re,  wliere  the  bnnds  of  i)len.surc  tossed 

Time's  gil.l.d  shuttle  to  nnd  /ro  ; 
Wh<re  ehanging  ligiits  the  fabric  crossed— 

Lights  of  th"  stall,  the  rout,  the  Row  ; 
What  wonder  if  our  voice  we  lift 

Contn.'ious  to  the  wild  acclaims 
Tliat  before  judgment  gnve  thee  shrift. 

And  ranked  thee  with  the  saintliest  names? 
"We  think  tliee  jX'rfect ;  but  the  tbougbt. 

We  know,  is  sccuhir  and  profane; 
And  thou,  by  conflict  l)elter  taught, 
Deemest  ouv  random  fnncies  vain. 
For  thou  bn.st  conimuni  d  with  thy  benrt. 

Mourning  thy  slow  nnd  alien  will; 
And  from  the  glai-o  of  life  npart, 

Huot  [londered  iKiUsivc,  sad,  nnd  still. 
We  w(ndd  not  ask  wbat  sins  to  heaven 

'J"liou  hnst  in  penitence  deplorctl ; 
Ontent  to  tnisl  th<  e  'ully  shriven 

Of  Inult,  of  <l(i^cl,  intent,  or  word. 
For  oh  !  wc  ennnot  eh<.ose  but  trust 

The  111  art  tli.it  pardon  mi  ckly  bears, 
lu  the  High  Oaut  is  countod  ju.«t 
And  iiurc  as  are  un  angel's  tears. 

'  F.  ft 


l''ri)iii  the  I'iiiiitiii^^  Ijv 


PENITENCE. 


[See  the  Poem, 


565 


engag:ed 


INTEKLlUFTEDl 


'XpNGAGED!  Oh,  indeed!  And 
Jli  pray  whit  then,  sir  ?' 
'  What  then,  sir  ?  Why,  then 
there  is  no  more  insufferable  con- 
dition for  other  people  than  to  have 
to  stand  by  and  be  spectators  of  their 
happiness !' 

ihere  is  something,  after  all,  in 
what  my  friend  sa>s,  tliough  it  can 
scarcely  be  supposed  he  is  abso- 
lutely serious,  considmng  the  ad- 
vantageous match  his  daughter, 
Miss  Lucy,  has  really  made  of  it. 
Thit  fact  being  assnrfd,  however, 
he  slicks  to  his  point  about  the 
discomfort  he  experiences  in  being 


a  compulsory  witness  to  '  their  ex- 
travagant alfeclion.'  *  My  good 
friend,  }0U  forget.  So  many  t'nings 
have  oecnpied  your  attention  since 
the  day  when  you  were  first  ad- 
mitted to  the  faruily  circle  as  the 
"engaged"  of  dear  Amelia— you 
seem  almost  to  forget  that  "dear 
Amelia"  and  your  excellent  wife, 
"a  joyful  mother  of  children,''  are 
one  and  the  same  person — that  yon 
forget  both  the  joy  that  was  yours, 
and  the  "  insufferable  condition " 
that  joy  occasioned  to  the  in(  mbers 
of  your  innaiiiorata's  family,  who 
received  you  so  kindly.    Pray  let  us 


5G6 


Engaged  t 


Ixar  no  more  about  "cxfravnpant 
nffortion."  I  am  ns  old  as  yon  aro, 
and  R'liiombtT  well— for  was  I  not, 
at  tlic  very  time,  in  a  pit  en  and 
^eIIow  me!ane!:oly,  pipliinp  for  tlio 
affections  of  jonr  dear  Amelia's 
sister  Mary,  wlio  jilted  ino  in  favonr 
of  Jack  Hornby,  the  inustucliioed 
and  iKitirded  nian  of  war?  I  re- 
nienil>er  how  einiiuntly  ridiculons 
you  were  wont  to  aj)])i  ar  to  us,  who 
saw  not  with  \o\\v  (  yes,  npon  almost 
every  occasion  when  you  and  d(ar 
Amelia  figured  in  pnhlic.  I  will 
not  iiarrow  voir  feelings  hy  de- 
Kcrihing  wliat  iidications  of  "ixtm- 
vagant  aff  ction"  you  gave  when  I 
cauio  unawares,  and  assuredly  with- 
out intending  it,  ujion  a  certain 
arliour  in  the  garden,  whrro  you 
and  yours  had  sole  jiossesi-ion,  one 
Sunday  evening  in  tlio  summer, 
as  I  returned  from  a  solitary,  un- 
lovely walk.  Shall  I  remind  you  of 
the  many  shift^<,  more  or  h  ss  flimsy 
and  transijiireiit,  with  wiiich,  many 
a  time  ai.d  oft,  \ou  fried  to  make 
your  occiipitioii  ai)iicar  other  than  it 
liad  iKtn  helbre  you  were  inter- 
rupted liy  the  unwelcome  entiance 
of  a  third  person  into  Iho  room? 
Ouimit  your  memoiy  carry  you 
buck  so  far  as  to  the  time  when  you 
seriously  jiropnsed  to  chidlenge  my 
cousin  Tom,  because  !ie,all  ignorant 
of  your  engagement,  dured  to  take 
your  dear  .Amelia  from  under  your 
very  eyes,  ami  to  waltz  with  her  as 
ho  might  have  done  with  any  young 
lady  whatever?  1  cnn  remind  you, 
if  need  be,  of  the  time  when  j'ou 
poured  out  your  soul  in  grief  to  mc, 
l)ccau.'e  you  were  not  oftener  left 
alone  with  your  cirissima,  and  be- 
cause her  woithy  fatlur,  a  thousand 
times  more  amid)Io  than  you  are, 
wafi  inoon.-iderate  c  nongli  occa- 
sionally to  nqiiiru  the  u.'-c  of  his 
own  study,  which,  for  reasons  Inst 
known  to  you  and  Amelia,  was  your 
favourite  tiiliing  and  cooing  place.' 

Long  ago,  ('hailes  Lamb  raisetl 
liifl  voico  I'gain^t  tliu  ])nt<nsions  of 
the  newly  married,  and  held  tliera 
up  to  scorn  in  vmious  ways,  in 
return  for  indigtiities  whicli  he  had 
siifTered  at  their  liands ;  but  the 
claims  and  self- assert  ions  of  the 
would-l)o  niarriecl  have  goiie  on 
unchecked  since  long  before  Lamb's 


time  until  now.  With  the  single 
exception  of  the  bard  who  lion 
Gaultier  hight,  and  who  sang  in 
moving  ver>o  the  miseries  of  tho 
lover's  frit  ml  and  coulidant,  no  one 
has  v(ntured  to  handle  the  delicate 
subject  of  the  contiuct  of  engaged 
people,  cither  towards  each  other 
or  towards  other  ])eopte.  It  is  a 
delicate  subject,  to  be  sure,  and  a 
man  might  he  excused  for  refraining 
to  bring  in  tlie  mil th-makers,  who 
haply  might  select  himself  for  the 
immediate  sul'ject  of  their  langhter. 
There  aro  so  few  who  can  afford  to 
raise  a  laugh  on  this  subject,  so  few 
who  have  not,  once  at  least  in  their 
lives,  to  pass  thr.mgti  the  love- 
making  stage,  and  so  to  appear,  as 
they  say,  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  ot 
other  i)eopIe.  It  is  a  ])rivilegc 
which  only  old  bachelors  like  my- 
self— I  never  recovered  the  blow 
my  young  affections  received  when 
the  beauteous  Mary,  sister  of  'dear 
Amelia,' threw  me  overl'oird  for  tho 
nuistachiocd  and  beaided  man  of 
war  aforesaid— enjoy.  Wo  have  a 
fee  simple  in  the  follies  and  extra- 
vagancies both  of  tlioso  who  aro 
married,  and  of  those  who  are  about 
to  take  upon  them  the  holy  estate 
of  matrimony ;  we  can  witli  im- 
punity let  'our  jest  among  our 
friends  l)e  free,'  and  in  the  matter  of 
courtship— as  they  u.sed  to  call  it  in 
my  young  days  — we  havtt  a  right  to 
comment  upon  it  as  we  likcbei-auso 
of  the  complet«ness  with  which  wo 
are  exclndetl  from  the  jo\s  of  it.  1 
hold  that  my  friend,  who  grumbles 
at  tho  '  iusnITerable  condiiioii'  in 
which  he  is  placed,  is  quite  out  of 
court.  He  does  but  see  the  relleclion 
of  ins  former  self;  it  is  an  instance 
of  the  thing  that  hath  l)eeu  being 
the  same  that  shall  be  ;  and,  so  far 
as  ho  is  concerned  by  it,  there  is 
no  new  thing  under  tho  sun.  With 
mo  it  is  dillerent.  Though  once  in 
my  life,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  I 
'sat  like  patience  on  a  monument,' 
smiling  at  the  grief  which  the  mus- 
tachioed and  bearded  man  of  war 
causeil  mo  in  tho  matter  of  Mary, 
sifter  to 'dear  Amelia,'  I  sighed  to 
myself  only,  without  declaring  my 
pa8.sion,  and  had  not,  thereloro,  to 
go  through  any  |)iiblic  exhit'ilions 
of  'extravagant  affection,'  such  as. 


Eii'jagcd  ! 


567 


doubtless,  T  phould  have  done  had 
I  been  a<liiiitted  to  pruti'/i(c,  and 
bad  the  Fates  been  kinilei*  to  me 
than  they  were.  Thus,  you  see, 
gentle  reailers,  I  am  at  liberty  to 
make  any  remarks  I  please  upon 
the  situation.  No  one  can  meet  me 
with  a  ta  qnoque,  or  dei;laie  me 
estopped  from  nsing  as  freely  as  I 
like  the  gleanings  of  my  expe- 
rience. Let  my  friend  therefore, 
for  decency's  sake,  stand  aside,  and 
let  mc  take  his  place.  I  am  vain 
enough  to  think  I  shall  Ire  it  the 
matter  wit'i  a  hand  more  tender 
and  more  sympathetic  than  his, 
while  I  S'lall  not  the  les-s  expose 
what  he  would  in  his  unamiability 
tear  to  tatters. 

There  is,  then,  to  be  noticed  ia 
the  carriage  and  deportment  of 
engaged  persons  an  amount  of 
awkwardness  and  restraint  in  the 
presence  of  other  people,  which  not 
only  stamp  them  for  what  they  are, 
but  tend  to  make  the  whole  pai  ty 
among>t  whom  they  find  themselves 
perfectly  uncomfortable.  Strangers 
— that  is  to  say,  any  i^eople  but  the 
two  who  are  interested  in  main- 
taining the  monopoly  of  mutual 
'extravagant  affection' — feel  almost 
guilty  at  being  the  occasion  of  so 
much  discomfort.  They  do  not 
want  to  obtrude  themselves  oa  the 
attention  of  the  loving  pair;  and 
assuredly,  if  their  own  personal 
comfort  were  alone  concerned,  they 
would  get  far  out  of  sight  of  the 
enamoured;  Imt  circumstances  will 
not  admit  of  it;  there  must  be  cer- 
tain rooms  in  common  at  certain 
times— under  no  circumstances,  for 
instance,  do  lovers,  love  they  never 
so  lovingly,  quite  dispense  with  the 
service  of  the  dining-room.  Common 
civility,  moreover,  requires  that 
occasionally  they  should  be  in  the 
drawing-room,  or  other  place  where 
the  other  members  of  the  family  are 
assembled  ;  and  it  is  oa  each  and  all 
of  these  occasions  that  the  charac- 
teristics above  mentioned  are  notice- 
able. There  is  in  the  manner  and 
on  the  face  of  Araandus  an  ex- 
pression half  of  listlessness,  half  of 
anxiety  to  be  agreeable  in  spite  of 
himself,  which  strikes  a  disin- 
terested observer  rather  curiously. 
He  begins  to  think  that  Amandus  is 


unwell,  that  he  is  a  genius  ])ondcring 
abstruse  questions  'even  in  the 
presence;'  or  may  be  tho  tliought 
crosses  his  "brain,  as  he  sees  the 
conlinuousness  of  Amandus's  ab- 
sence of  mind,  that  peicliance  he 
may  have  committed  some  ciirae 
which  makes  him  ill  at  ease.  Only 
one  who  is  cognizant  of  the  true 
state  of  the  ca.'-e  can  rightly  inter- 
pret the  meaning  of  tbat  shifting 
glance  of  tho  e\es,  that  perpetual 
wandering  to  and  fro  t'e  beloved 
object,  who  sits  ui. comfortably  upon 
some  neighbouring  chair  or  sofa, 
and  tries  to  play  the  hypocrite, 
though  with  as  poor  a  result  as 
Amandus.  As  plainly  as  the  ex- 
pression on  an  intelligent  being's 
countenance  can  convey  a  meaning, 
so  plainly  is  it  apparent  to  the 
disinterested  unappropriated  that 
Amandus  is  chating  on  the  bit 
which  good  manners  have  forced  into 
his  mouth,  and  that  he  is  wishing 
with  all  his  heart  he  had  wings  like 
a  bird,  that  he  might  fly  into  the 
study  or  the  break  fast- room,  where 
he  would  be  with  Amanda.  What 
pleasure,  what  sati-faction  there  can 
be  in  thus  secluding  himself  with 
Amanda  I  do  not  pretend  to  say. 
Would  it  not  seem  more  glorious  to 
stay  in  the  midst  of  the  lauiily 
circle,  and  triumph  openly  and 
continuously  in  the  coiqnest  you 
have  won?  Or  are  there  sweet 
mysteries,  solemn  rites  of  courtship, 
winch  none  but  the  initiated  may 
know,  and  which  must  be  performed 
in  so  private  a  manner,  that  the 
sudden  entry  of  a  Philistine  into  the 
room  is  enough  to  scare  the  votaries 
of  Cupid  fi'om  their  vow-makiug, 
and  to  cause  a  trepidation  that  is 
observable  long  after  the  invader 
has  entered  ?  I  presume  it  must  be 
60,  else  there  could  not  be  so  great, 
so  manifest  a  desire  on  the  part  of 
Amandus  and  Amanda,  and  on  the 
part  of  Amanda's  father  before 
them,  as  I  have  already  testified,  to 
get  away  to  some  covert  from  tlie 
common  gaze. 

'  Not  that  room !  Tlicy  are  in 
there !' 

'  Confound  them !  Suppose  they 
are?  My  "  Encyclopaedia  Eritan- 
nica"  is  in  there  too;  and  surely  I 
may  go  and  fetch  it !' 


)C8 


Engaged  I 


'  My  do.ir  Pi'r,  you  aro  too  violent, 
and  too  inconsidenito  as  well.  At 
all  ovonts,  make  a  noise  with  tlio 
(loorliandlo,  so  as  to  give  some 
warniuj?  of  your  coming.' 

My  friiiicl  fuels  the  awkwardness 
of  having  hisown  study  as  effectually 
K<.al(.'d  against  him  as  if  the  Customs 
otliar.s  had  found  out  that  ho  had 
an  illicit  di.^tiikry  in  it:  he  results 
what  he  calls  an  encroachment  on 
his  lihirty  ;  but  the  noise  ho  has 
made  in  stuniMing  over  the  door- 
mat, and  in  fumhling  with  the  door- 
handle, has  put  'the  pair'  snlli- 
citntly  on  the  qui,  viuc  to  allow  of 
their  quitting  the  celebration  of 
tho-;e  rites  imkuown  to  all  but  the 
iidiiated,  and  my  friend  enters  his 
study  to  find  his  largo  easy  chair 
vacant,  but  locking  as  if  it  had  not 
long  bien  so,  drawn  up  in  a  com- 
f  irtalilc  jiosition  on  one  siile  of  the 
lireplaco,  wliileAmandus,  who  might 
be  su-ipucte  1  of  hiving  sat  therein, 
is  busy  .'JLcing  '  why  the  lamp  burns 
80  dimly,'  and  Amamla,  at  tlio 
otluT  end  of  the  room,  is  so  osteu- 
tatiousiy  eiignged  in  looking  over 
Rome  music,  that  one  is  bound 
to  8Ui>pose  with  Lon^f«.llow  that 
'  things  are  not  what  they  seem.' 
It  does  not  rcpiiro  one  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  rites  of  JJau 
Cupid  to  conjicturo  that  Amandus 
ami  Amanda  had  been  dilferently 
ociiupied  ere  that  fumbling  with  the 
dnor-hiuidlo  warned  them  of  tho 
fact  that  a  Philistine  was  ap- 
pro icliing. 

'  Two  aro  company,  three  none,' 
pays  Jlirian,  when  it  is  pioixK^ed 
that  she  .shall  go  with  Amandus 
and  Alii, ui  1.1  to  the  croquet  party 
at  Mrs,  Thingnmby's.  'You  aro 
quite  right,  my, dear;'  only  tiicro  is 
tho  slightest  possible  tinge  of  dis- 
Ralisfartioii  in  your  tone  that  you 
are  of  the  tliree,  and  not  of  tho 
tw.),  which  lead.s  one  to  doubt 
whether  yiur  remark  is  prtmpted 
60  much  by  a  desire  to  let  tho 
company  consist  of  tho  only  har- 
inomous  elements,  as  by  a  wi,sh  to 
piiiit  uncomfortably  towards  iho 
com|)ORition  of  the  company  in  order 
to  gratify  your,>-elf  by  enjoying  tin  ir 
discomfoit.  If  the  tone  be  rightly 
interpreted,  I  will  pa.>-8  by  your 
remark  as  being  merely  cynical ;   if 


not,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon, 
and  coniiilly  endorse  tho  truism 
you  have  uttered.  J>ngiged  folk 
do,  us  a  insitter  of  fact,  dislike  tho 
presence  of  a  third  person,  almost 
as  much,  perhaps  mure,  than  that 
of  a  large  party.  '  A  great  company 
is  a  great  solitude,'  and  in  it  the 
'  engaged  '  can  be,  compurativoly 
ejieaking,  free,  almost  unnoticed; 
whereas,  in  narrower  limits  they 
both  caupo  aiiH  are  rcipiired  to 
give  a  greater  attention.  1  am  far 
iVom  being  certain  that  the  con- 
dition of  tho  third  person  wIkj  is 
tacked  on  to  the  '  happy  pair'  is 
not  much  more  'insutt'erable'  tlian 
theirs.  If  they  so  Car  consider  him 
or  her  as  not  to  talk  about  them- 
selv's,  it  will  bo  in  so  forced  and 
artificial  a  mannor  as  to  make  their 
coiiversatiim  less  tolerable  than 
their  silence,  or  their  mutual  self- 
appro]iriation.  With  what  unblush- 
ing selti^line.ss  do  an  engaged  couple 
walk  off  together,  with  a  iio/i  uos 
t'lui/rn'  expression  on  their  faces,  as 
though  they  had  a  nionoi)oly  of  tho 
earth  on  which  they  walk,  and 
would  resent  any  intrusion  as  tho 
infringement  of  a  patent  right. 
Whilst  they  choo.se  to  walk  tiu^y 
are  as  Fcarecrows  to  the  timid  and 
the  good  natured,  who  avoid  them 
as  t;d))(Kd  objects,  and  '  steal  away 
so  guilty  like,'  if  perchance  they 
stuml)le  upon  them  in  the  cour.se  of 
till  ir  ])erigrinations.  My  frieinJ, 
the  father  of  Amanda,  f-peaks  very 
feelingly  on  this  subject.  He  siiys 
his  favourite  ]iait  of  tlic  garden  is 
no  lonf;er  one  of  his  pleasant  places  ; 
the  ivy-grown  summer-house,  wherb 
lie  was  wont  to  read  and  smoke  a 
lazy  pipe,  is  no  longer  availablo  for 
liim  since  ho  was  foolishly  led  to 
sanction  the  mad  engagement  which 
brings  his  Amanda  and  her  Amandus 
S)  mueh  in  his  way. 

He  com|)lain.s,  too— and  herein, 
as  a  cahn,  dispas.sionato  olwerver,  I 
am  compelled  to  join  with  him  -of 
the  demonstrativene.ss  of  tlio  'en- 
gage 1.'  •  Positively,  sir,  I  havo 
Rien  them  sitting  knee  to  knee 
nlmost.  with  their  Inuuls  clasj)eil, 
their  tongues  as  silent  as  the  grave, 
their  e.\es  rellecting  all  sorts  of 
nonsense  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
looking  liko  the  most  2>erfect  fools 


Engaged ; 


569 


that  can  he  met  with  out  of  Bed- 
lam.' 

Gently,  my  friend.  Tliis  fault, 
this  unshamefaced  glorying,  if  you 
will,  is  very  reprehensible.  If  it 
does  notliing  else  it  asscrls  to  all 
present,  more  plainly  than  is  agree- 
able, that  tliey  are  not  happy  as  the 
engaged  are;  but  Ihere  is  no  need 
for  you  to  break  out  into  a  fnry  on 
the  subject.  I  will  mention  the 
circumstance  in  a  don't-do-it-agaiu 
sort  of  way  through  the  various 
circles  of  London  Society,  and  I 
doubt  not  you  will  cease  to  bo 
troubled  by  demonstrations  of  '  ex- 
travagant affection.' 

Did  the  captain  take  Amanda 
down  to  dinner  ?  "Well,  it  was  very 
gauche  in  tlie  hostess  not  to  have 
arranged  differently ;  but  there  is 
DO  reason  why  you,  A  mandus,  shoiild 
sit  savagely  all  dmner-tirae,  f-aying 
nothing  whatever  to  the  amiable 
lady  V»y  your  side,  who  is  isnorant 
of  your  misfortune,  and  is  trying  to 
enlist  your  sympathies  in  the  last 
report  of  the  Society  for  procuiing 
a  change  in  the  colour  of  the  Ethio- 
pian's skin.  Do  not  venture  to 
press  Amanda's  foot,  though  you 
may  think  it  to  be  within  reach, 
tinder  the  table.  You  can  ass^ure 
her  of  your  sentiments  towards  her 
as  well  as  of  those  you  entertain 
towards  the  captain  afterwards. 
Meantime,  though  jou  may  think 
to  touch  Amanda's  foot  with  yoiu- 
own,  it  may  happen  you  light  ac- 
cidentally on  the  captain's,  and 
some  embarrassment  may  ensue. 

Why  should  you  be  angry  be- 
cause an  old  friend  of  Amanda's 
chooses  to  talk  to  her  longer  than 
you  like  ?  Is  it  not  enough  for  you 
that  Amanda  has  preferred  you  to 
the  old  friend,  to  all  her  old  friends, 
and  only  wishes  not  to  make  them 
feel  the  preference  too  keenly  ?  Go 
to ;  yon  are  unreasonable ! 

Again,  while  I  recommend  you 
not  to  wear  your  heart  on  jour 
sleeve  for  daws  to  peck  at,  or, 
in  other  words,  not  to  flaunt  your 
engagement  in  everybody's  face, 
be  particularly  caieful  how  you 
inflict  upon  your  friends  the 
story  '  How  you  did  thrive  in 
this  fair  lady's  love,  and  she  in 
yours.'    Your  lady  friends  will  per- 


haps welcome  the  recital,  for  their 
tcuiler,  loving  natures  incline  Hiem 
to  listen  to  a  tale  of  love;  but  your 
male  friends,  glad  enough  to  know 
that  you  are  happy,  will  vote  you  a 
bore  if  you  give  them  too  many 
details  of  your  hnppineJS.  They 
will  be  sure  to  di-count  your  de- 
scription of  your  ladylove ;  it  is  ten 
to  one  they  will  nake  fun  of  jou 
and  of  her  too,  the  nnginorons 
brutes,  in  the  next  couveisatiou  tiiey 
have  with  a  mutual  friend;  they 
will  think  but  siin|)!y  of  you  for 
talking  of  that  which  you  should 
keep  as  private  as  pos.^ible;  and 
they  will  wish  you  at  Jericho  if  you 
take  up  nuK^h  of  their  time  with  a 
matter  ia  which  they  can  have  but 
a  specially  limiteJ  interest. 

•It  is  the  most  CRrrgi.ius  boro 
Ofall  the  bores  I  kiio\\f. 
To  li  ive  a  friend  who  lust  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago.' 

This  will  be  the  burden  of  their 
song,  this  will  be  the  true  expression 
of  their  inmost  feelings ;  and  though 
good  nature  may  prompt  them  to 
bear  and  forbear,  they  will  assuredly 
feel  aggrieved  if  you  draw,  as  the 
cus'om  of  lowers  is,  upon  their 
patience  ad  libitum. 

As  for  Amanda,  it  would  be 
almost  presumptuous  in  me  to  offer 
her  any  counsel,  yet,  at  the  risk  of 
offen  ling  so  charming  a  young  lady, 
I  will  venture  to  suggest  that  i-ho 
should  be  very  chary  of  confiding 
too  much  to  her 'dearest  Jane'  or 
Liicy.  The  chances  are  she  will 
say  more  than  slie  intended,  and 
there  will  be  some  additions  made 
by  lively  imaginations.  Let  her  re- 
member she  has  some  one  else's 
confidence  to  keep  besides  her  own. 
Let  not  the  love  ot  triumph,  the 
communicative  springs  of  happiness, 
still  less  the  mere  love  of  'hearing 
or  telling  some  new  thing,'  lead 
her  into  imparting  thoughts  which 
are  already  'engaged.'  Let  her  not 
exult  t>y  word  or  action,  as  I  have 
s-^-en  some  do,  over  her  compeers 
who  are  unattached  ;  *  there  is  many 
a  slip,'  &c.  Above  all,  let  her  con- 
sider very  tenderly  the  abnormal 
position  in  which  she  ami  all  about 
her  are  placed  during  the  term  of 
her  engagement— let    not  that  be 


ro 


Engaged  ! 


long— and  let  her  try  to  ncrnmmo- 
dato  herself  to  the  c-onvotiieiice — 
ay,  oven  to  tho  {irejudiees  of  those 
whom  8ho  is  soon  to  leave,  and  to 
whom  she  will  thereafter  ho  glad 
that  f-ho  showed  so  much  considera- 
tion and  self-denial.  Finally,  let 
her  not  on  any  acconnt  forget  to 
iii^^.  me  to  the  wetlding.  She  may 
rely  uj)on  my  services  iii  tho  matter 


of  giving  away,  of  speecli-maldng, 
of  Hinging  tlie  sliiij)er,  of  drying 
the  tears  of  the  resixjctive  mothers- 
in-law,  of  anything,  in  short,  which 
may  properly  and  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  forming  part  of  tho 
oflice  and  duty  of  the  devoted  ad- 
mirer of  all  Amoudas. 

F.  W.  R. 


CAMBRIDOl:    PRIMTIt    AT    n      r<      MOl'i.niOK    AM)   COMI'AMV. 


I>rawn  by  Florence  Claxton.] 


TWENTY-FOUK 


rHS   OP   THE    SEASON". 


'Y  9    WATCI 


[See  the  Verses. 


LONDON    SOCIETY. 


JULY,    18(37. 


A  TALE  OF  'THE  DEEBY.' 


THE  '  riamitf  rs  '  had  arriverl  in 
the  liojal  15arracks,  Dublin. 

The  'Flauuters'  wtre  a  crack 
corps  ;  more  so  than  many  dragoon 
regiments  of  the  second  order; 
much  more  so  than  any  flying  bat- 
tery of  the  gnniiers,  and  iutiuitely 
more  po  than  the  '  Old  Slows,' 
whom  they  had  relieved,  and  who 
had  been  consigned  to  the  congenial 
dreariness  of  the  Mediterranean. 

The  '  Flaun^ers '  had  publicly 
announced  that  they  were  going  to 
be  very  gay.  They  purposed  opt  ning 
the  campaign  with  a  grand  fancy 
ball,  to  be  followed  by  a  scries  of 
pic-nics.  and  concluded,  at  tlie  com- 
mencement of  the  leave  season,  by 
amateur  theatricals.  So  the  upper 
ten — or  shall  we  say  one? — thou- 
sand of  the  good  C'ty  of  Dublin  were 
considerably  elated  or  depressed, 
and  rejoiced  or  moumed  according 
to  their  various  temperaments. 

Papas  groaned  over  the  tiglitness 
of  the  money-market,  and  louk  an- 
other glass  of  the  '  fine  old  port,' 
as  they  execrated  the  Fenians,  whose 
sad  escapades  had  so  materially 
affected  the  value  of  landed  pro- 
perty ;  clever  mammas  mentally 
ran  up  the  amounts  of  milliners' 
bills  already  due,  and  framed  lists 
of  those  who  would  stand  further 
addition  to  their  outstanding  ac- 
counts, and  of  others  who  might  be 
induced  to  di.^pose  of  their  silken 
wares  without  prospect  of  imme- 
diate payment;  fair  daughters  with 
brilliant  complexions  and  dazzling 
eyes  revelled  in  unbounded  spirits 
at  the  thoughts  of  all  the  fun  and 
jollity  before  them.  Georgiua  in 
her  first  season,  thinking  that,  no 

VOL.  XII.— NO.  LXVIL 


doubt,  her  pretty  fiice,  and  merry, 
■witty  manner  would  at  once  procure 
for  her  a  capital  match  ;  Mai  y  Anne, 
verging  thirtywards,  determining 
that  now  or  never  was  her  oppor- 
tunity of  netting  an  eligible  hus- 
band; while  the  haiid>ome,  big, 
lounging  sons,  who  lived  and  dres.sed 
well  (the  eighth  wonder  of  the 
world)  on  apparently  '  nothing  a 
year  and  no  allowancts,'  looked 
eagerly  forward  to  pleasant  dinners 
at  the  '  Flaunters"  mess,  with  a 
little  'Van-John'  or  Loo,  and  a 
broiled  bone  or  so,  as  an  ai:)prop)riate 
finish. 

The  '  Flaunters '  were  as  good  as 
their  word;  and  in  due  course  all 
Merrion  Square,  Stephens  Green, 
and  the  adjacent  aristocratic  streets 
were  worked  up  to  a  state  oi  nervous 
excitement  concerning  the  invita- 
tions to  the  fiincy  bail,  which  were 
distributed  with  great  imjiartiality, 
and  with  a  total  disregard  for  the 
injunctions  of  the  Castle-yard  clique ; 
which  latter  was  thereby  mortally 
ofl'euded,  and  tried  to  pooh-pooh 
the  gallant  '  Flaunters ;'  hut  with- 
out effect,  for  their  neat  ])'nk  cards 
— signed  by  Captains  Ealph  Moss- 
croft  and  Ualse-Lynden— were  as 
eagerly  sought  after  as  if  Lords 
Lieutenant,  gentlemen-at- large,  and 
so  forth,  had  never  existed. 

Captain  Halse-Ljndtn  was  a 
handsome  man.  A  very  iiandsome 
man — of  that  type  which  we  call 
Saxon,  for  want  of  a  better  term. 
Clean-cut  features  of  a  very  light- 
brown  complexion,  bright  blue, 
laughing  ejes,  long  brown  whiskers, 
and  a  silky,  golden  moustache,  fall- 
ing   naturally,  and  free  from  the 


A  Talc  of  ^  Tl.f  Derby. 


greasy  aliominations  of  tlie  I'.urliiif;- 
ton  Airailo.  And  as  wc  sic  him 
now,  \\\\v\\  pcttiiip;  into  '  mufti,' 
after  iiiorniuK  |»!iia()e,  \vc  must  con- 
fess tliat  )  e  is  IIS  fair  a  s|Hciiuon  of 
the  En};lis]i  swell,  as  any  other  gen- 
tlt'inan  of  our  ii('<|uaintanee. 

'Giles,  a  collar — no,  not  that; 
one  of  the  new  ones— that's  it. 
Now  bru'li  my  hat — and,  Giles  !' 

'  Yes,  hir.' 

'  Stepovtr,  with  my  compliments, 
to  tlie  ei»I(iners  quarters,  ainl  a>-lv  if 
lie  has  any  more  frie  ds  for  the  l>all- 
list.  liii  j^niii)^  down  to  the  ("astle 
(luard,  to  cinnijlete  it  with  Captain 
Mosscroft.' 

'  All  right,  sir.'  And  the  faithful 
Giles  left  the  room. 

'And,  Giles!' 

'  Yes,  bir,'  answered  the  servant, 
returning. 

'  lias  tlic  company  been  paid  yet?' 

'  Not  \et,  sir.' 

•  Welf,  take  tliis  "  fiver"  to  Mr. 
Scott,  with  my  comphiuents,  and  ask 
liiin  to  i)ay  it.' 

'  liight,  sir.' 

The  captain  went  on  with  his 
toilet— jiinniitg  a  necktie— scruti- 
nising the  hall-Iist,  trying  various 
coats  and  waistcoats,  looking  over 
the  notes  and  jiencilled  cards  that 
littered  the  tal)lo  —  muttering  at 
times  to  himself,  the  while  he 
smoked  a  cigar. 

'  Hem — odd  the  Carters  arn't down 
— Larkins?  that  long,  hunting  fel- 
low?— Yes,  liest  have  him.  Ilem — 
]\Iftish,  two  daughters — ovcr.-tucked 
with  ladies  already — Hang  that 
fellow!  lie's  crushed  this  coat  so 
that  it's  U'lt  fit  to  lie  .seen.  Let  me 
see— cards  -  list  -cigar-case  ;  that's 
all  right ;'  as  ho  felt  his  pockets. 
'  Now  thcirC  Utters — what  a  nuisance 
they  are.  Hem  — Governor's  weekly 
sermon — iJun,  dun,  dun;'  as  he 
sorted  the  results  of  the  morning's 
post  that  were  l.\ing  on  his  desk; 
'  Amy— a  jiarcel  of  her  bosh — I 
wonder  how  girls  can  write  such  rub- 
bish—Hem—  Hem  —  Garsteiri  begs 
to  rcminii- cursed  bill  of  his  for 
250^ — hojies  it  will  Im;  <lnly  met  — 
Hem —  momy  8caicc — t-aii !  —  Mrs. 
DulVy  presents  her  compliments  and 
would  be  glad  if — iiarc  say  you 
would,  old  girl,  Imt  really  can't — 
Kyne?   Who  ihu  dev ' 


'  Colonel's  com])limcnt.s,  pir,  and 
he  !ias  no  more  names  fur  your  list.' 

'  lla!— well.  l!uii  and  fetch  mo 
an  "  outsido,"  (iilcs.' 

And  Cap'ain  Halse-Lyndca  lit 
a  Irish  cigar,  jiut  on  hi.s  hat  and 
lle^h-coloure  i  glovo.*<,  and  jaunty 
cane  in  hand,  took  a  fiircwell  glance 
of  him.self  in  the  g!ass  ere  ho  com- 
nicnc(  d  to  descend  ln)m  his  elevated 
quarters. 

'  I  say,  Lynden,  can  you  let  mo 
have  an  invite  for  C'ioml)es?'  asked 
Sulncy  iJalton,  coming  out  of  the 
iiKss-house,  at  the  dnor  of  which 
Halce-Lynden  was  wailing  for  his 
car. 

'  Now,  my  dear  f.dlow,  pray  be 
reasonable!  The  list  is  quite  filled 
up,  and  besides  your  young  grazier 
is  hardly ' 

'  Yes,  and  tliat's  the  fellow  that 
Montresor  heard  discoursing  so 
freely  about  '•  jmps  of  ensigns"  at 
the  Erady's  "lioj),'"  intciruiited  a 
gal  !ant  young  standard-hearer  of  the 
'  Flaunters.' 

'  Is  he?  Oh  well,  never  mind 
him,  then.  ^Ve'll  have  pups  enough, 
without  "  pups  of  graziers."  ' 

'  Oh,  Lynden,  have  you  arranged 
with  the  messman  for  the  pic-nic 
next  Monday  ?'  asked  the  colonel  as 
he  joined  the  group. 

'  Ingram  is  to  manage  all  about 
tl  at,  colonel.  I  uuist  be  oil"  to  the 
Castle  Guard-room  n  w.  Any  of 
your  fellows  be  at  tlie  club  this 
altirnoon  ?  I'm  going  to  play  Jarvis 
of  f  ho  "  Plungers  "  at  billiards,  for  a 
couple  of  "  iivers,"  at  three.  Ta, 
ta.  Now,  jarvey,  steam  ahead  I'  and 
Captain  Halse-LyiKh  n  tucked  his 
ri;^lit  leg  under  him  in  tin'  most  ap- 
proved style,  and  leant  on  the  centre 
cu.-hion.  as  the  carman  whirled  hiiu 
out  of  the  luriack  square,  and  down 
the  Liffey  quay,  at  a  mo.^t  aston- 
ishing pace. 

The  guaid-room  in  the  ri)pcr 
Castlo  Y^ird  is  a  dirty,  frowzy  hole; 
so,  at  hast,  said  Captain  IJalph 
Mossciolt,  its  present  oicujiier,  who 
Certainly  had  a  right  to  givo  an 
ojiinioti  on  the  suhjcct,  if  (  xprricnce 
of  all  the  guard- rooms  in  the  United 
Kit  gdom  went  for  aui;ht.  And 
while  the  gallant  captain  is  haiiing 
on  that  lime-hoiiouird,  crimson 
cushi(m   that  has,  beyond  the  me- 


A  Tale  of  '  The  Derby: 


mory  of  man,  occupied  a  conspi- 
cuous position  on  tlie  sill  of  the 
window  that  looks  out  nn  the  Ililier- 
nian  Bank  and  Cork  Hill,  and  mus- 
ing on  the  hardness  of  the  hues  that 
confines  him  to  duty  on  such  a 
glorious  May  day,  we  will  just  run 
over  such  little  prominences  of  his 
character  as  are  most  apparent.  He 
was  an  enthusiastic  carpet-knight, 
and  nothing  could  ever  induce  him 
to  venture  his  precious  person  be- 
yond tlie  limits  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland,  a  well-managed  series  of 
exchanges  ahvavs  keefiing  him  on 
home  service.  He  was  master  of  a 
tolerable  income,  which  he  warily 
added  to  with  the  aid  of  his  billiard- 
cue,  and  a  judicious  use  of  the 
'  flats ' — cards  and  men  —and  with 
'  knowing'  bets,  picked  up,  for  the 
most  part,  when  men's  blood  was 
inflamed  with  wine.  He  was  a  ca- 
pital fellow  to  have  in  a  regiment, 
as  he  promoted  and  managed  balls, 
pic-nics,  and  such-like  with  a  skill 
almost  equal  to  that  of  a  professed 
M.  C.  He  was  a  tolerable  shot,  a 
tolerable  rider  to  hounds,  a  tolerable 
flirt — and,  in  short,  one  of  thoso 
mild  'admirable  Crichtons'  that 
are  so  very  useful,  and  somewhat 
ornamental,  in  garrison  life.  One 
spark  of  feeling  of  any  sort — save 
for  himself — he  had  never  dis- 
played; and  therein  lay  his 
strength. 

As  Captain  Mosscroft  leaned  out 
of  the  guard-room  window,  he  spied 
Halse-Lynden,  who  had  dismissed 
his  car,  standing  at  the  bottom  of 
Cork  Hill  in  conversation  with  one 
of  the  aides-de-camp;  and  the  su- 
balterns of  the  guard,  Wilton  and 
Montresor,  coming  in  at  that  mo- 
ment from  visiting  their  sentries, 
the  trio  forthwith  fell  to  di^^cussing 
their  brother  officer,  as  is  the  wont 
of  men  under  similar  circum- 
stances. 

'  How  docs  Lynden  stand  for  the 
Derby,  do  you  know,  Mosscroft?' 
asked  Wilton. 

'  Badly,  I  imagine.  In  fact  he 
almost  told  me  that  the  reason  he 
exchanged  into  us  last  March  was 
because  he  had  made  an  awful 
muddle  of  his  betting-book,  and 
wanted  to  have  the  tin  ready  to 
clear  himself;  Loyse  gave  him  a 


whole  pot  of  money  for  the  ex- 
change.' 

'  Odd,  wasn't  it,  to  exchange  so 
long  before  the  race  ?  Couldn't  he 
hedge?' 

'  No,  my  boy.  He  couldn't  get 
the  bets  ho  wanteii  — he  was  too 
deep  in  the  mud  for  that.  Besides, 
he  found  the  "  Plungers"  a  deuced 
sight  too  expensive.' 

'  Pooh !  his  governor  is  as  rich  as 
a  Jew,  is  he  not,  i\loutresor?' 

*  Yes ;  he's  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  the  City,  but  rather  a  screw, 
I  fancy,  and  not  very  fond  of  open- 
ing his  money-bags  to  ]\bister  Halse. 
All  his  people  are  awfully  rich,  but 
all  quite  as  close  as  he  is  extrava- 
gant,' answered  Paul  iMontresor,  who 
was  distantly  connected  with  the 
Lyndens. 

'Ah!  well,'  sighed  Wilton,  fling- 
ing himself  on  a  couch,  'as  long  as 
a  fellah  has  monied  people  at  his 
back,  his  kites  are  sure  to  fly,  so  it's 
all  the  same.  I  wish  I  had  a  jolly 
old  aunt,  rolling  in  money,  and  very 
fond  and  proud  of  mo,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  wouldn't  I  go  it!' 

'Lynden  has  an  old  aunt — Mrs. 
Halse — rolling  in  money,  but  she  is 
not  exactly  jolly,  too  religious  and 
May-meetingish  for  that.  She  used 
to  tip  Lynden  heavily  until  he  took 
to  keeping  racehorses,  when  she 
threw  him  over  altogether.'  And 
Montresor  lounged  on  the  cushion 
in  the  window  beside  his  revered 
captain. 

*  Hang  it  all !  I  wish  lie'd  come 
up.  What  on  earth  can  he  be  say- 
ing to  that  fool  all  this  time?  I 
say,  Wilton,  tell  a  corporal  to  go 
down  and  call  him,  will  you,  like  a 
good  fellow  ?' 

'Oh,  bother!'  yawned  the  lazv 
Wilton. 

*  Ah,  never  mind ;  he's  coming 
now,'  continued  Mosscroft,  as  he 
perceived  Halse-Lynd(  n  making  his 
way  towards  the  guard-house. 

'  'Morning,  Mosscroft.  We  must 
finish  ofl:'  those  invites  at  once,'  said 
Lynden,  as  he  entered  the  room. 
'  What  a  lazy  beggar  j  ou  are,  Wil- 
ton, on  the  sofa  at  this  time  of  day ! 
Oh,  Montresor,  Hervey  wants  you 
to  play  in  tlie  Garrison  v.  I  Zingari 
to-morrow  week.     Can  youV 

'  I  suppose  I  must ;  but  it  will  be 

B    2 


A  Tale  of  *  The  Derhy: 


nn  awful  prind,  cominp  lietwecn  our 
first  pio-iiii'  ami  tlio  loill.' 

'Let  me  stc;  lliis  is  tho  ist; 
Momliiy,  the  7tli,  tho  ])ic-uic;  nnd 
the  hull's  not  till  tho  nth.  Pooli! 
J  on  will  have  a  day's  rest  between 
each  event.' 

'  Wasli  out  your  month, Lyndon?' 
nsked  Mosscroft.  '  Sherry  and  beit- 
zcr,  or  8odii  and  B?' 

'Soiin,  ))l(a<e,  with  "jVsta  sketch 
of  sjxrrits  through  it,"  ns  they  say 
liero.  We  wire  up  awfully  lafe  last 
night  at  Morris's  — ])layfcd  lansque- 
net till  all  was  l)lue!' 

'  IIow  did  you  conio  off?' 
'  Oil,  ]>rrtty  well.    Landed  a  dozen 
'•  skivs,"  and  thought  myself  deuced 
lucky.' 

'  I  like  lansquenet,'  remarked  Wil- 
ton ;  'there's  no  bother  about  it. 
You   stakes    \our  money,  and  you 

takes  your ' 

'  Cliaiice.  liisht;  it's  as  simple 
as  "  pitch  and  toss,"  and  .so  exactly 
suits  your  nuntd  incapai-ity,  Wil- 
ton,' interrnptt'il  Mosscroft. 

'You  be  hantied!'  was  the  only 
answer  vouchtated  by  the  occupant 
of  the  sofa. 

'  Now  look  hero,  Lyndon.  Let  us 
poli.sh  off  thesi'  last  invitations,  and 
iiave  ilone  with  the  job.  Give  mo 
tl:e  iist ;  and  do  you  fill  in  the  cards.' 
'No;  let  Moiitresor  write  them. 
I'm  too  shaky  until  I've  had  my  pep;.' 
'  Well,  v\\\\i  the  hell.  Now,  Monty, 
take  tliO'^c  c.irds  and  (ire  away,  as  I 
r<ad  out  the  names,'  said  Mosscroft ; 
ai.d  tlic  twf>  set  l)Usily  to  work  while 
Ibilsc-Lymiin  cirefully  measured 
out  half  a  J.' lass  of  brandy  into  a 
hirpe  tumblcT.  and  taking  a  bottle 
of  iced  fi.rda-water  from  tho  hands 
of  the  waiter,  undid  the  fastenings, 
an<l  waited  with  thirsty  eyes  until 
thn  gas  forced  the  cork  uj)  to  tho 
Ceiling  with  a  loud  '  pop,' and  the 
fizzing  contetifsloiuried  into  the  tum- 
bler, whence  the  delicious  compound 
was  at  once  transferred  totlie  expec- 
tant throat,  down  which  it  crackled 
and  hissed  like  cold  water  thrown 
on  red-hot  iron. 

'Hah!  that's  decidedly  iKjtter,' 
remarked  Ljndtn,  alter  this  '  pick- 
me-iip,'  as  he  l-a^dl  out  of  tho  front 
winilow  with  Wilton,  and  amused 
himself  by  criticising  the  many  sp«- 
cimtns  of  Iiish  beauty  that  posfied 


up  Cork  Hill,  and  in  suiu'rintonding 
the  labours  of  the  (iovernment  clerks 
in  the  oj)posite  building,  who  were 
busily  engaged  in  maniging  the 
giKssip  of  the  country  ami  noting 
the  contents  of  the  newspapers  of 
the  day. 

By  two  o'clock  tlic  cards  were  all 
fidished  and  despatched,  and  after  a 
light  lun 'h,  Lynden  found  it  was 
time  to  !?tart  for  the  club  in  Ste- 
J)lieii's  (liteii,  ami  stro'led  leisurely 
down  tlio  Lower  Castle  Yard,  re- 
galing himself  with  a  cigar,  and, 
between  the  puffs,  gently  humming 
tho  opening  bars  of  tlio  Guards' 
Waltz. 

'The  Flaunters'  ball  on  tho  nth 
— Black  Friday  as  it  has  been  called 
— was  a  t:raiid  success,  and  was  but 
little  affected  by  the  stunning  tele- 
giajihic  news  of  the  awful  panic  in 
the  City  ;  for  jour  DuMiii  merchant 
is  not  of  a  sjicculative  i  atiire,  and 
keeps  what  little  money  he  has  in 
tolerably  safe  in  estmeiits,  so  Avhilo 
tho  j)riiices  of  Lfniilcn  commerco 
Were  j)liinged  in  dread  and  dismay, 
their  bretliren  on  t'.ither  side  the 
Cliannel  were  revelling,  with  tlieir 
wives  and  daughters,  at  the  '  Flaun- 
ters" expense  in  all  the  delights  of 
the  gor;.'eous  fancy  liall.  Ail  enter- 
tainments of  this  sort  are,  I  take  it, 
much  the  same  in  their  general  fea- 
tures, and  only  vary  in  the  greater 
or  lesser  degrees  of  splendour  which 
they  exhibit.  Sullice  it  then  to  say 
that  the  tmanimoiis  verdict  pas-cd 
upon  this  one  given  by  the  '  Flaun- 
ters' was,  that  it  outslione  anything 
of  the  same  kind  evirseen  l)efore  in 
Dublin,  and   was   a  fcucce.ss  a  nn.r- 

When  Captain  Habe-L\  ndeii  arose 
at  a  late  hour  the  (bllowing  morn- 
ing ho  was  suffering  from  a  head- 
ache, which  was  not  diminislied 
when  ho  found  among-t  liis  letters 
ono  from  Garstein — tie  Jew  who 
held  liis  bill  for  250/.— in  which  the 
wily  Israelite  refu-ed  to  <  niertain  an 
apiilicatioii  for  a  renewal,  and  in- 
sisted that  the  bill  should  be  taken 
up  when  due  on  Monday  the  2iht 
instant.  Hal.se- Lynd(;n  (•in>ed  the 
pam'c,  which,  no  doubt,  had  inllu- 
enced  the  money-lender  in  his  deci- 
sion, and,  f»ver  two  or  three  cigars, 
set  him.self  to  consider  tho  gloomy 


A  Tale  of '  The  Derby: 


position  of  his  affair?,  and  to  ham- 
mer out  a  plan  whcrcl'y  they  miglit 
be  righted.  Tlie  proceeds  of  his 
excliange  from  his  old  'Plunger' 
regiment  to  the  'Fiaunters'  liad 
been  carefully  laid  by  to  meet  the 
inevitable  losses  on  his  miuliilcd 
Derby  betting- book, and  as  'settling 
day'  was  rapidly  api)roa(;hiiig,  that 
money  could  not  be  touched.  Mrs. 
Halse,  the  wealthy  and  childless 
aunt,  whom  Moutresor  spoke  of  in 
the  guard-ri)om,  would  not  assist 
him  with  one  shilling  since  her 
morality  had  been  shocked  by  Lyn- 
den"s  horse-racing  escapades.  Old 
Mr.  Ljuden  was  not  that  easy-going 
sort  of  governor  with  which  some 
fellows  are  blessed,  and  was  likely, 
in  spite  of  his  great  wealth,  to  cut 
up  excessively  rough  if  asked  by  his 
sun  for  any  further  help,  more  par- 
t  cularly  as  he  allowed  that  young 
gentleman  a  considera\)le  annual 
income,  and  had  already  twii-e  jjaid 
his  debts;  so  matters  altogether 
looked  very  'fishy,'  and  the  gallant 
captain  was,  as  he  said  to  himself, 
'in  a  hole.'  Thinking  over  his 
aft'airs  did  not  make  them  appear 
one  bit  brighter,  so  with  a  sigh 
Halse-Lynden  at  length  arose  from 
his  dismal  reverie,  having  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  run  over  to 
London  and  make  a  humiliating 
personal  application  to  his  father. 
This  was  Saturday ;  Monday,  the 
14th,  was  the  day  for  the  second, 
picnic,  and  that  he  couldn't  miss; 
so  our  hero  determined  to  avail  him- 
self of  the  'Derby  leave,' which  a 
])aterna!  Horse  Guwrds  grants  to  all 
those  who  wish  to  attend  our  annual 
saturnalia,  and  start  by  the  early 
boat  on  Tuesday  morning  en  route 
for  town. 

Monday  the  14th  was  a  glorious 
Slimmer  day,  and  the  sun  shone  on 
the  revelhrs  at  the  'Fiaunters' 
second  pic-nic  to  the  Glen  of  the 
Down-^,  a«!  if  its  services  had  been 
espe  -ially  hired  for  the  occasion.  At 
two  the  numerous  throng  of  hosts 
and  gnc>ts  sat  down  under  the  shade 
of  the  magnificent  oak  trees,  and  im- 
mediately afeiidejoie  of  champagne 
corks  proclaimed  the  event  to  the 
rooks  and  beggars  who  were  hang- 
ing on  the  outskirts  of  the  fete,  in 


eager  anticipation  of  sharing  the 
relies  of  the  ban  juet.  It  was  in- 
deed a  brilliant  scene;  the  gay 
colours  of  the  la^lies'  dresses,  the 
more  sober  costume  of  the  men,  the 
glitter  of  the  polished  plate  and 
glass,  the  mingled  show  of  china, 
flowers, iind  ice-mis'^ed  silver-necked 
Mozel  flasks,  and  long  snowy  table- 
cloth, contrasting  well  with  the 
great,  gnarled  stems  of  the  mighty 
oaks,  and  the  brijiht  green  of  the 
summer  grass  -and  ail  was  fun  and 
joviality,  sparkling  conversation, 
jokes,  and  pleasant  merriment. 
Halse-Lynden  was  iti  his  natural 
element,  and  was  the  lite  and  soul 
ofthei^arty,  while  his  brother  officers 
acted  up  to  their  well-wcm  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  pleasantest  hosts 
in  all  the  service. 

The  fun  was  at  its  height  when 
an  outside  car  was  perceived  driving 
rapidly  along  the  rotid  from  Du'ilin, 
and  our  hero  saw,  with  undefined 
uneasiness,  that  it  bore  his  servant, 
Giles,  who  jumj^ed  off  and  came 
over  to  seek  his  master  with  a  yel- 
lowish letter  in  his  hand. 

'What  is  it,  Giles?'  eagerly  ques- 
tioned Lynden,  in  an  undertone. 

'  Telegram,  sir,  marked  "  imme- 
diate." ' 

He  opened  the  envelope.  It  con- 
tained but  one  line— '  Lynden  and 
Co.  stopped  payment  at  noon' — and 
had  been  sent  by  his  father's  con- 
fidential clerk. 

'  Good  God !'  gasped  Halse-Lyn- 
den, as  he  turned  ghastly  jjale,  but 
almost  immediately  his  present  situa- 
tion recurred  to  his  mind,  and  gulp- 
ing down  a  glass  of  champagne  to 
hide  his  confusion,  he  collected  his 
thoughts  for  a  moment,  and  then 
whispered  to  Giles — 

'  Go  back  to  barracks  at  once. 
Pack  a  portmanteau  with  everything 
for  a  few  days;  take  it  down  to 
Kingstown,  and  meet  me  there  in 
time  for  the  seven  o'clock  Holyhead 
boat.  Look  sharp,  now!'  And 
Giles  made  the  best  of  his  way  back 
to  carry  out  his  master's  directions. 

'Anything  amiss,  Lynden'?'  asked 
Mosscroft,  who  alone  had  marked 
our  hero's  discomposure  at  lunch, 
as  they  lounged  apart  from  the  la- 
dies. 

'No,  nothing  particular,'  preva- 


A  Tale  of  ♦  The  Derby: 


ricatol  Lyndcn ;  '  iho  povernor's 
ratliLT  pccily.  I  tliink  I'll  cross  the 
Channel  tu-night,  and  not  wait  for 
you  fellows  tomorrow  morning.  I 
supiviso  the  oolonil  won't  oliject':'' 

'  Oh,  not  ho.  We'll  meet  at  Ep- 
som, 1  snppose'?' 

'Of  rour.>-o.  Von'ro  safe  to  land 
"a pot"  on  tiiat  hcast  Lord  lijon.' 

'  Vcs,  I  fancy  so,'  answered  IMoss- 
rroft,  and  tlie  two  strolleil  \^^  and 
down  until  it  was  time  to  rejoin  tlio 
fair  St  X,  wlieii,  in  spite  of  his  aehinf:^ 
heart,  Lyndeii  was  the  gayest  of  the 
gay,  and  danced  on  the  smooth  turf 
and  flirted  with  greater  assiduity 
and  (app  irently)  higher  spirits  than 
any  of  his  compeers.  Towards  six 
o'clock  Iliilse-Lynden  slipjied  away 
from  the  festive  scene,  and,  calling 
Montresor,  hurriedly  explained  mat- 
ters to  him,  and  begging  him  not  to 
mention  them,  asked  him  to  drive 
back  the  drag  which  he  himself  had 
'  tooled' down  with  such  cd'it ;  and 
then  charteriig  the  swiftest-looking 
'outsi  !e'  wliich  he  could  tind,  drove 
at  a  break-neck  pace  into  Kings- 
town, wliere  he  picked  up  Giles  and 
his   portmanteau    just    in    time  to 

catch  the  boat. 

*  <t  m  * 

"Mr.  Garstcin  sat  in  tho  back 
drawing-room  of  a  house  in  New 
Bond  Street  that  called  him  master, 
at  elev(  11  o'clock  in  the  morning  of 
the  day  preceding  the  Derby,  and 
drearily  ccmned  liis  bill-book.  At 
half-past,  a  IIan«om  drew  uj)  at  his 
door,  and  Ca])tain  JIalse-Lynden 
came  l)0unding  up  the  staircase, 
three  steps  at  a  time. 

'  Well,  Garstein,  you  know  the 
news,  of  course?' 

'  Closes !  I  do.  Captain  Lyndcn  ; 
and  vat  will  you  do  now?' 

'  Do?  I'm  d d  if  I  know.   I've 

l>een  to  sec  tho  poDr  governor— he's 
in  an  awful  state  ;  and  I  thought  I 
miKht  !us  well  come  on,  and  have  it 
out  with  you.  Wo  are  all  utterly 
ruined !' 

'  And  von't  you  pay  my  little  bill, 
captain?'  whined  out  the  .h-.w. 

'  Pay  your  little  l)ill !  Hang  it  all, 
don't  I  tell  you  I'm  ruined ! — 
utterly  ruined,  man !' 

'  r>ut  yonr  ronuui.'^sion,  captain  ; 
yi)U  might  give  mo  a  checiue  on  your 
cumoiisbiou.' 


'  Sell  my  commission ! — and  what 
the  deuce  am  I  to  live  on  then?  No, 
no,  my  little  usurer;  you  must 
renew;  it's  your  only  chance  of 
getting  your  money.' 

'  IJenevv!  Mein  Gott!  Renew  de 
bill  of  a  man  dat  is  (juito  broken! 
No,  caj)tain  — Uut,'  he  asked,  after  a 
pause,  '  but,  could  you  give  me  do 
na'Mo  of  a  broder  olhcer  in  de  new 
bill?' 

'  Ifem — well,  jicrhnps  I  might: 
but  don't  think  1  can  take  up  that 
cursed  250/.  without.  The  i)rice  of 
my  commission  wouldn't  half  cover 
my  debts:  and  I  vv^'f  have  time  to 
lo  'k  about  mo.  I'm  not  going  to 
sell  fir  your  d d  convenience.' 

'  Well,  captain,  my  goot  sar,  don't 
bo  in  a  passion  ;  take  a  glass  of  dat 
goot  sherry  wine,  and  we  will  talk 
it  over  wit  a  cigar.' 

The  results  of  the  consultation 
over  the  'goot  cherry  wine'  and 
cigar  may  l)e  briefly  stated,  though 
they  were  not  arrived  at  without  a 
consideral)le  amount  of  mutual  ob- 
jurgation. JIalse-Lynden  was  to  he 
present  at  the  Derby  the  next  day, 
as  if  nothing  had  huppened,  and  en- 
deavour to  j)r(>mulj,^ate  such  a  ver- 
sion of  his  father's  susjiension  as 
wou'd  induce  tho  l>elitf  that  his 
dilhcnlties  were  merely  of  a  tempo- 
rary nature ;  and  on  th(3  Thursday 
was  to  try  and  procure  the  name  of 
a  brother  olHcer— numbers  of  whom 
would  bo  in  town— to  a  renewal 
bill  f(ir  (iarstein,  on  the  grounds 
that  his  ]terby  losses  were  Iwavicr 
than  he  had  anticipated.  Failing 
in  this  attempt,  our  hero  was  to 
'  send  in  his  i)apers,'  giving  the  Jew 
a  first  cheipie  on  the  jtrico  of  his 
commis.sion.  Poor  Lyndon's  mind 
was  in  such  a  stato  of  excitement 
that  he  failed  to  see  the  turpitude  of 
this  conduct,  and  he  williiinly  lent 
himself  to  tho  ])lans  of  tho  wily 
usurer,  whose  only  object,  of  course, 
was  his  own  security. 


'Lord  Lyon!  Lord  Lyon!'  was 
sere  lined,  and  sliouted  again  from 
the  top  of  a  drag  on  which  a  num- 
l)erof  the'  Flaunters' were  crowded, 
as  that  noble  horse  rushed  past  liko 
a  whirlwind  to  his  triunii)liant  goal, 
on  tho  memorable  1 6th  May :  and 


A  Tale  of '  TJie  Derby: 


'Lord  Lyon's  immlier!  Lord  Lyon 
wins!' was  rc-cclDcd,  and  repeated 
with  a  wild  yell  from  the  same 
shaky  elevation,  as  the  telegraph 
proclaim! ul  him  the  victor. 

Halse-Ijynden,  thoujih  a  heavy 
loser,  partly  from  excitement,  and 
partly  from  the  cop'ous  draughts  of 
'fizz  '  in  which  lie  Irid  indulged  to 
drown  tlie  thoughts  of  his  dreary 
prospects,  shouted  and  yelled  with 
the  best,  and  was  as  gay  and  jolly 
over  the  suhsequent  wine-crowned 
lunch  as  if  he  had  been  the  winner 
of  thousands,  iustead  of  the  loser  of 
many  more  hundreds  than  he  could 
atford,  and  seemei]  in  such  bounding 
liigli  spirits,  that  even  those  who 
knew  most  about  his  father's  mis- 
bap  were  quite  dtctived.  On  the 
road  home— at  the  bacchanalian 
dinner  at  Lane's  hotel — in  the  wild 
orgies  of  Cremorne,  jirolonged  until 
the  insulted  sunlight  drove  the 
pallid  revellers  home,  liaise- Ljn- 
den  shone  ])re-eminent,  and  outdid 
all  his  fellows  in  the  riotous  ex- 
uberance of  his  conduct. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  follow- 
ing day  our  hero  awoke  with  a  fearful 
headache  that  brandy  and  soJa-water 
was  utterly  powerless  to  allay — 
awoke  to  find  conscitnce  and  the 
Jew  'tapping  at  his  chamber-door.' 
The  latter  caution ■;  sou  ofMararaon 
had  no  intention  of  letting  his  victim 
slii^  through  his  fingers,  and  was 
quite  determined  to  keep  a  very 
close  watch  on  him  until  his  claim 
was  satisfied  ;  so  ]ioor  Lynden  had 
the  pleasure  of  going  through  the 
refreshing  operations  of  the  bath, 
the  toilet-table,  and  breakfast  under 
the  inspection  of  Mr.  Garstein,  who 
talked  so  uninterruptedly,  and  made 
so  many  suggestions  as  to  his  mone- 
tary welfare,  tliat  our  hero's  atten- 
tion was  diverted,  and  he  hardly 
noticed  the  impudence  of  the  intru- 
sion. 

Before  soliciting  his  brother 
oflScers'  assistance,  which  he  was 
very  loth  to  ask,  Lynden  determined 
to  have  '  one  more  shot,'  as  he 
phrased  it,  at  Mrs.  liaise:  but  on 
presenting  himself  and  his  shadow 
— indeed  they  were  driving  in  that 
gentleman's  natty  cabriolet— at  his 
aunt's  house,  he  was  refused  admit- 
tance.   So  that  chance  was  gone ; 


and  the  pair,  hoping  against  hope, 
proceeded  to  Kensuiiit  m,  where 
they  learned  that  Mr.  L\n  len,  sen., 
with  his  daughter,  had  left  the  pre- 
vious evening  for  Fraticn;  and  our 
— now  thoroughly  dejected — hero 
was  further  informed  by  a  confi- 
dential old  servant  of  his  father, 
that  the  means  for  the  journey  had 
been  supplied  liy  iMrs.  Halse,  who  had 
driven  down  and  sooMud  and  com- 
forted the  uidjappyol  1  nun  and  his 
only  girl,  and  had  insis'ed  on  their 
accepting  a  certain  lixed  allowance 
until  matters  could  be  cleared  up; 
but  that  on  Miss  Amy  mentioning 
her  brother's  name,  ihe  good  lady 
had  flown  into  a  violent;  passion, 
and  loudly  declared  that  she  would 
have  nothing  further  to  say  to 
'  such  a  disreputable  horse-jockey !' 
This  was  pleasant  n^ws,  with  a 
vengeance !  And  Atra  C'/ira  swung 
triumphantly  on  the  foot- board  be- 
side Mr.  Gar^tein's  siuaU  'tiger/ 
as  the  cabriolet  left  tiie  house  in 
Kensington,  and  w-as  driven  at  a 
furious  pace  in  the  direction  of 
Lane's. 

In  this  world-renowned  caravan- 
serai, and  the  ad,acent  military 
haunts,  lay  Lynden's  Li^t  hope  of 
obtaining  assistance  in  his  dire  need  ; 
and  here,  shaking  ofl',  for  a  time,  bis 
Jewish  blood-sucker,  he  commenced 
his  fruitless  quest.  Poor  Halse- 
Lynden!  Could  any  of  his  former 
gay  comj)anions  conceive  him  fallen 
to  the  low  pitch  in  which  we  now 
find  him,  as  he  goes  from  hotel  to 
hotel,  from  room  to  ro')ra,  abased 
and  humiliated  to  the  very  earth,  as 
refusal  after  refusal  meets  his  half 
shame-deadened  ear,  would  they 
not  at  once  step  forward,  tt)  help  for 
a  little  while,  one  wh  >  had  ever 
been  most  free  anl  generous  to 
them  when  in  trouble  of  any  kind  ? 
No  :  not  one  of  them. 

Such  is  '  fast'  life.  Let  a  man  but 
show  the  slightest  s\mptoms  of 
sinking,  and  his  farmer  boon  com- 
panions turn  away  fr  mi  him,  and 
eject  him  from  their  herd,  even  as 
the  wild  deer  do  when  one  of  their 
flock  is  stricken  with  some  dread 
forest  plague.  So  when  poor  Lyn- 
den, half  heartbroken,  dreu'ily  gave 
up  his  endeavour,  and  returned  to 
the  snug  smoking-room  at  Lane's, 


.1  i'aic  «f  '  I'hc  Derby.' 


ho  felt  tliat  it  was  all  over  with 
him,  ninl  that  in  vain  — for  who  ha<l 
not  luard  of  tlio  awful  Kniasli  of 
Lyndcii  nn»l  Co  ?  — iniKht  ho  seek 
nmoufrst  his  fiiie-wiiitlier  associates 
for  one  helpinfj  liiuid.  But  stay — 
there  was  one  luuiible,  hut  triic- 
hearted  man  ;  one  who  had  acted 
for  many  vi  ars  in  the  various  capa- 
cities of  mo;  her,  lather,  doctor,  pay- 
ma.ster,  and  nnrse  to  mnny  a  world- 
tossed  yonn^'  t;entk'nian-at-arms ; 
one  who,  in  tin's  time  of  sore  dis- 
tress, came  to  oiir  jioor  hero  as  ho 
was  drearily  snckin^  his  last  lonely 
cigar,  and  elu  ercd  him,  and  pave 
him  pood  and  sinind  advice.  Tliis 
was  John,  the  time-honoured  pro- 
tector of  many  a  distressed  subal- 
tern, and  the  I  xcellent  head  waiter 
at  Lane's. 

'  I'm  sorry  to  hear  of  your  mis- 
fortune, Cap'a  n  L.\  ndcn.'  said  John, 
in  a  quiet,  lesiiectful  tone,  as  he 
entered  the  roam, 'but  I  hope  it's 
not  quite  so  seriou-j.  When  will  you 
jikase  to  have  dinner,  sir?' 

'  Dinner!  I'ph  !— I  haven't  much 
appetite  lift  for  dinner,  Jdlin.  Never 
mind  it  just  now  ;  but  pet  me  some 
brandy  and  soda.  I'm  repiilarly 
done  up.' 

'I  wouldn't  drink  brandy,  sir. 
Shall  I  pet  you  a  pla«s  or  two  of 
champapne  iiistc  ad  :  it's  not  so  heat- 
inp?' supues'e  I  John. 

'Very  well;  |)urhaps  it  will  Ix) 
l>etter.  And,  I  say,  John,  is  Caj)tain 
Mosscroft  in  jet  ?' 

'  Captain  Mosscroft,  sir?  IIo 
•went  dovvn  to  the  country  to-day, 
and  rejoins  on  Saturday  without 
cominp  through  town.' 

'  The  devil  ho  does  !  What  an 
unlucky  beppar  1  am!  IIo  is 
iny  la.st  Iiojm!.  I  don't  know  what 
on  earth  t)  do  now!' 

'Wouliln't  it  be  liest  to  rej  )in 
your  repimctit  at  onco,  f-ir?'  quietly 
inpinuatcil  John.  '  You  would  be 
liettcr  al)Io  to  hce  your  way  there, 
and  tiie  col mel  mi^ht  l>e  able  to 
]>ut  yo>i  in  the  way  of  settinp 
matters  ri^:ht.  I'd  try  it,  sir,  if  I 
Wi'.s  you.  I/'udon  is  a  danperous 
place  when  one  i-<  out  of  sorts.' 

'  By  Jove  I  l>cliove  you'ro  ripht, 
John !  There's  no  pofxl  stuyinp 
hero  to  Ikj  buHicd  by  duns,  and 
bnecrcd  and  i»ointed  at  by  a  pack 


of  d d  fellows.      I'll  bo  o(T  by 

to-nitrht's  mail.' 

'  That  is  the  best  ])lnn,  depend 
upon  it,  sir;  and  I'll  tt-ll  the  cook 
to  have  a  comf  )rtab!e  dinner  for  you 
at  seven  — and,  sir  — iml  cximiso  me, 
Ca))tiin  Lyn  ten  —  but  if  ten  or 
twenty  pounds  or  so— to  go  on 
with-^^ — ' 

'Tiianks,  Jolin,  thanks;  but  I'm 
amply  suppliid  for  the  ])resent. 
Though  God  oidy  knows  how  1  may 
bo  in  a  few  diys!'  And  as  the 
kind-hearted  \A'aiter  h-lt  the  room 
poor  Lynden  w,is  quite  overcome, 
and  aciually  sol>l)ed  inlho  liitterne.ss 
of  his  heart,  as  t;e  contrasted  the 
penerous  otTer  that  hail  just  been 
made  him,  with  the  coolness  and 
contiinpt  of  those  whom  he  called 
his  '  intimate  friends.' 

Ilappard,  pale,  p'lastly,  sick  in 
mind  and  l)ody,  liaise- Lvnden  drove 
up  the  followinp  morning  to  the 
Iloyal  Birracks,  ami  poing  straipht 
to  his  quarters,  .sint  his  servant  to 
ask  Mr.  Montresor  to  step  over. 

'  Look  litre,  ]\Ionty,'  he  eaperly 
bcpan,  as  Paul  eiit'  red  t!io  room  ; 
'don't  think  I'm  going  to  ask  you 
to  help  me ' 

'  I  wish  I  could,  old  fellow, 
but ' 

'  I  know,  I  know.  I  don't  want 
you  to— but  I  'III  want  your  advice. 
Two  luads  are  better  than  one.  I'll 
show  you  exiiclly  how  I  stand,  and 
tlien  )ou  can  tell  mo  what  you 
think  I  onp)it  to  do  ' 

The  liabilities,  when  set  down  in 
plain  tipures,  prest uted  a  formidable 
array;  for  in  addition  to  the  250/.  of 
CJarstein's,  there  were  other  heavy 
dehts  which  were  nrpently  put 
forward  for  payme-nt  now  that  tho 
failure  of  Lyuilen  and  Co.  was  pul>- 
licly  known.  In  fa<'t,  tho  i)rice  of 
Lyndc'u's  commission  would  only 
just  cover  t'le  total  amount ;  and 
Montrc-or  thought  it  most  likely 
that  the  crtiditors  wouM  press  mat- 
ters, and  force  his  frieml  to  m'U  out, 
unless  some  sf>p  coulil  Ihj  at  once 
thrown  them,  in  tho  shape  of  a  |)er 
cent.ipo  on  ttuir  hCMTal  accounts, 
(larstein,  for  one,  would  be  certain 
to  have  his  bill  prote>t«-d,  if  it  could 
not  l>o  reni;Wtd  sulli  fir.->t-rttte  names 
on  itrt  back. 

This  was  the  rock  on  which  the 


A  Tale  of '  The  Derby: 


9 


ship  would  fonnrlcr,  unless  it  could 
be  tided  over  by  soiuo  unforeseen 
wave  of  good  fortune. 

Montresor  was  a  very  poor  man, 
and  barely  managed  to  '  bold  on '  in 
the  'Flamiter.s'  with  liis  small 
means;  and,  besides,  was  en,e;aged 
to  a  Miss  Braiiston— a  si'eat  friend, 
by  tbo  way,  of  Mrs.  Halse — and  the 
only  money  lie  had,  was  laid  by  to 
purchase  his  company. 

'  But,  Mdsscroft  ?  He'll  renew 
the  bill  for  ine,  I'm  sure.  I've  often 
and  often  lielpi  d  him  at  a  pinch.' 

Montresor  shook  bis  head.  '  Moss- 
croft  is  a  very  good  sort  of  fellow  in 
his  way,  but  you  might  as  well  try 
to  pump  h  )iiey  oat  of  a  dunghill 
as  to  ijeouade  him  to  risk  a  half- 
penny for  you,  or  any  other  living 
being.' 

'  Well,  I'll  try  him,  anyhow,  when 
he  arrives,'  said  Lyiiden,  in  a  dogged 
tone;  'and  now,  Monty,  I  must  lie 
down.  I'm  fairly  dead  beat,  and 
must  have  some  sleep.' 

Captain  Mosscroft  did  not  arrive 
in  Dublin  until  late  on  Saturday 
night,  and  went  almost  immediately 
to  bed. 

The  next  morning  a  tap  came  at 
his  door,  and  Halse-Lynden  walked 
m. 

'  I  want  to  ask  you,  Mosscroft,  to 
lend  me  yonr  name  to  renew  a  bill 
of  mine  that  Garstein  holds.' 

'  Phew — my  dear  fellow — but  how 
much  is  it  ?'  asked  Mosscroft,  who 
pretended  ignorance  for  reasons  of 
his  own. 

'  Only  two  hundred  and  fifty — for 
three  mouths.  I'll  make  it  all  right 
then  or  sell.' 

'Two  hundred  and  fifty!  My 
dear  Lynden, — if  it  was  fifty,  now, 
or  even  one  hundred,  I  could,  per- 
haps, lend  you  the  money;  but  a 
bill  for  such — really  I ' 

'  Will  you  do  it  for  me  or  not  ?' 
asked  Lynden,  passionately. 

'  I  really  can't,  Lynden ;  but ' 

'But  you  won't.  Pah!'  snorted 
Lynden,  in  disgust,  as  he  turned 
short  round  and  walked  out  of  the 
room,  slamming  the  door  violently 
behind  him,  and  made  for  his  own 
quarters. 

In  his  rooms  he  found  Garstein 
sitting,  who  had  lost  no  time  in 
following   our  hero — and    closely 


examining  the  numerous  duns  that 
strewed  the  table. 

'  All  up  with  nie,  my  little  skin- 
flint !'  said  poor  Lymien,  wlio  was 
now  rendered  quite  reckless  by  his 
troubles ;  '  Mo?scroft  won't  do  it, 
and  so  there's  nothing  left  for  it 
but  to  send  in  my  papers,  and  give 
you  a  cheque  on  my  commission 
for  your  internal  bill,  and  then  go 
to  the  devil  my  own  way.' 

'  Mein  Gjtt,  Captain  Lynden,  don't 
speak  so.  Perhaps  in  time  all  may 
be  right.  I  vant  de  money,  but 
only  begause  de  money  market * 

'D n  tlie  nmiiey-market,  and 

you  too!  I  don't  want  any  of  your 
humbug  now.  Shove  over  that 
foolscap,  and  I'll  send  in  my  papers 
at  once,  and  then  write  yuu  a 
cheque.  I  suppose  you  wouldn't 
be  satisfied  unle-s  you  saw  the 
letter  actually  go  to  the  colonel?' 

*  Well,  you  see.  Mr.  Lynrlen ' 

'  Oh,  don't  bother  me  with  your 

cursed  non.eense !  Here  go^s  !'  And 
Halse-Lynden  wildly  began  to  write 
a  formal  applicati  n  '  to  be  allowed 
to  retire  from  the  service  by  the 
sale  of  his  commis!^ion.'  This 
finished,  he  called  in  Giles,  and 
despatched  him  with  the  papers  to 
the  adjutant. 

*  And  now,  how  shall  I  word  the 
cheque  for  yon  ?  "  Gentlemen, 
please  pay  Louis  Garsttin "' 

' "  Out  of  de  ijroceeils  of  my  com- 
mission," '  the  Jew  was  interrupting, 
when  the  door  of  the  room  was 
thrown  open,  and  Paul  Montresor 
came  in. 

'  What  the  deuce  are  you  doing, 
Lynden '?' 

'  Oh,  I've  sent  in  my  papers,  and 
am  giving  this  begtzar  a  cheque 
for  his  money;'  and  Lynden  con- 
tinued writing. 

'  But,  stay — stay  a  moment.  Look 
here,  Lynden ;  I  dare  say  I  shan't 
want  that  purcha=e-money  of  mine 
that  is  lying  at  Cox's,'  said  Mont- 
resor, 'at  least  yet  awhile,  so  you 
can  have  the  use  of  it.' 

'  Oh,  no,  Monty ;  1  couLln't  think 
of  it.  Heavens,  man,  it  would  ruin 
your  prospects !' 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Look  here,  now. 
I'll  give  this  fellow  a  cheque  at 
once,  and  we'll  talk  over  paymg  the 
others  afterwards.    Now  don't  be  a 


10 


A  Tale  of «  Tlie  Derby: 


fuoi,  Lyndon.  If  tlio  worst  comes 
to  the  worst,  tliero  is  jilcnty  of  tiiuo 
to  sell  wlun  I  want  tlio  money.' 

'Oh,  Monty,  my  ileiir  fellow,  I 
couldn't— I  eiin't,'  and  the  tears 
fairly  came  to  poor  TiVnden's  eves. 

'  Oh,  lK)tlier.  It'll  lill  ho  ri^-lit,  I 
dare  say.  Now  you,  fir,'  coiitiniicd 
Paul,  addressing  the  Jew,  '  here's  a 
chcr)ue  fur  your  money.  Now  Rive 
mo  the  bill,  and  take  yourself  off 
out  of  this.' 

Garsttin  cnp^orly  clutched  the 
cheque,  and  havinj?  satisfied  him- 
self as  1o  its  correctness,  han<led 
over  liaise  Lynden's  original  ac- 
ceptan'e,  and  departed  from  the 
room  with  much  more  glee  than  he 

bad  exiieritnced  when  entering. 
i»  *  *  * 

'My  dear,  how  pale  you  are. 
And  I  diclare  your  e\es  are  as  nd 
as  if  yi)U  liad  hecn  crying!'  said 
Mrs.  Iliilso,  as  Jliss  ihanston  got 
into  her  ctirr  age  for  a  drive  in  Ilydc 
Park,  towards  the  latter  end  of 
July.  '  What's  the  matter,  dear?' 
continued  the  kind  old  lady,  as  she 
observed  te^irs  in  the  eyes  of  her 
young  fiiend. 

'It's  nothing,  dear  ^frs.  ITalsc ; 
but  Paul — I'aul— Mr.  Montre.sor — ' 

'  So  that  young  man  has  Ixien 
getting  into  a  scrape,  has  he?  I 
declare  it's  quite  dreadfol  the  way 
young  mtn  go  on  in  that  soul- 
destroN  ing,  horrid  regiment.  There's 
that  Bcuix'yrace  nephew  of  mine — ' 


'  Paul  is  in  no  scrnpc,  dear 
Mrs.  Halso,'  earnestly  pliad.  d  Miss 
JJranston;  'only  Major  (,)uiutin  is 
going  to  sell  oiit,  an  I  Paul  can't 
l)urchase  his  company  because — 
because ' 

'  JJccause,  I  suppose,  he's  spent 
all  his  money.  Foolish  fellow!  I 
dechiro  I'm  quite  disgusted  with 
him!' 

'Oh,  my  dear  LIrs.  Ilalso,  in- 
deed, indeed  it's  not  his  fault— 
and ' 

And  then  the  whole  story  of  how 
the  greater  portion  of  Montrosor's- 
money  was  spent  cnme  out,  and  Mrs. 
liaise  was  dreadfully  ind  gn  uit,  and 
opened  all  the  phials  of  her  wrath, 
and — may  we  say  it  of  siirh  a  line 
lady  ?— atni.se,  on  her  unfortunate 
nephew's  head. 

However,  the  result  of  it  all  was 
good  ;  and  ^Irs.  Ibilso  took  care 
tliat  I'aul  Montrcsor  should  not  lose 
his  chance  of  purchasing  his  step; 
and  further,  ]iaid  olT  all  the  claims 
against  her  graceless  ne])liew,  only 
insisting  that  ho  should  exchange 
from  the  '  Flaunters,'  who  were,  as 
she  informed  the  fair  Lizzie  liran- 
ston,  '  a  sadly  dissipated  set,  ray 
dear.' 

Halsc-Lyndcn  is  now  in  India, 
where  he  can  cultivate  his  taste-  for 
horse-racing  without  very  much 
detriment— in  a  ])ecuuiary  sense  at 
leaht— to  his  prosiieuts. 

J.  L. 


Drawn  l>y  Arlelaidu  Claxton.J 


ACADEMY   BELLES, 


[See  the  Poem. 


11 


ACADEMY  BELLES. 

IT  really  is  hard  on  the  critic 
(Whoso  work  is  completely  cut  out 
In  the  shape  of  review  analytic 

Of  what  every  picture's  al)out), 
To  have— when  he  gravely  would  ponder 

The  story  each  canvas  there  tells — 
His  thoughts  ever  tempted  to  wander 
By  groups  of  Academy  Belles. 

In  vain  '  composition '  and  '  colour  ' 

To  judge-of  he  laudably  tries, 
Till  he  wishes  his  feelings  were  duller, 

Or  girls  had  not  loadstones  for  eyes. 
On  '  drawing '  and  '  chiaroscuro ' 

His  mind  for  a  moment  scarce  dwells. 
Ere  it  wanders  to  watch  the  demura  row 

Of  dainty  Academy  Belles. 

Oh,  happy  young  Captain  McCupid — 

Yes,  happy  and  blest  as  a  king  1 
He  votes  the  Academy  stupid, 

But  '  does '  it  because  it's  '  the  thing.' 
No  thought  about '  method  '  or  '  model ' 

Disturbs  him,  serenest  of  swells, — 
There's  room  in  his  weak,  honest  noddlo 

For  all  the  Academy  Belles. 

Young  Eeredos,  the  curate,  looks  sainted,— 

On  the  nape  of  Ms  neck  rests  his  liat — 
He  comes  to  see  how  they  have  painted 

The  Bishop  of  This  or  of  That. 
In  winning  the  smiles  of  the  ladies 

'Tis  strange  how  a  parson  excels : — 
An  idol  our  fi'iend,  I'm  afraid,  is — 

Yes,  e'en  of  Academy  Belles. 

While  Stabber,  that  rising  young  artist, 

With  genius,  a  beard,  and  long  hair, 
Quite  fails — and  no  joke  of  a  smart  is't — 

In  winning  a  glance  from  the  fair. 
They  think  has  'Hypatia'  delightful — 

That  head,  there,  with  ears  like  pink  shells- 
But,  not  knowing  him,  think  S.  is  frightful, 

These  haughty  Academy  Belles. 

The  rooms  they  pervade  with  their  presence. 

With  rustle  of  silks,  and  the  glow 
Of  gold-braided  tresses,  and  essence 

Of  sweetness  wherever  they  go. 
Of  Bond  Street  discourses  the  bonnet— 

Of  Eimmel's  the  handkerchief  smells — 
The  face— is  there  powder  upon  it. 

Deceptive  Academy  Belles  ? 


IS  Acadeviy  Belles. 

In  pichircs  of  chiklrcn  they  revel — 

Call  Ilayllar  a  duck  and  a  dear, 
And  Milluis  (wlien  down  to  their  level) 

The  pet  of  all  i^ainters  this  year. 
•         Tliey  Kx)k  iip<in  \Vhistler  as  '  washy,' 

Tliirik  GotHlall's  larpe  canvases  'sells/ 
Eritfs  ex-iuifite  linish  is  '  l>oshy' 

With  shingy  Academy  Belles. 

On  fa.'-hion  and  art  they  come  pat  in ; 

^Vit]l  ea-e  they  decide  in  each  ca'e:— 
Pass  jndpment  on  Sant  and  on  satin, 

And  estimate  Landseer  and  lace. 
Tht^y  talk  alxjut  Phillip  and  flounces. 

On  winsies,  and  Walker  and  Wells, 
With  equal  precision  pronounces 

The  voice  of  Academy  Belles. 

Of  harmony,  colour,  and  keeping 

They 're  icmorant — ^joking  apart ; 
And  a  pi 'ture  of  Baity  when  sleeping 

They  think  is  the  highest  of  art. 
Ko  faults  of  perspective  or  drawing 

Thtir  pleasant  illusion  dispels; 
No  critical  '  pishing'  or  'psliawing' 

Impresses  .Academy  Belles. 

To  endeavour  to  change  their  opinions 

Is  really  a  task  as  absurd 
As  tr\)iig  to  talk  off  tlieir  chignons. 

Or  striving  to  get  the  last  word. 
Th»  ir  tiisto-  are  superior  to  strictures; 

Their  ardour  no  argument  quells; 
Of  course  they  know  all  aliout  pictures, 

These  darling  Academy  Belles. 

"Well,  let  them  :  for  who  could  be  hard  on 

Such  lieautiful  judges  as  they? 
We  ni"!st  eccentricities  pardon 

That  come  in  such  charming  array. 
A>1  lib.  let  such  loveliness  clmtter; 

We  si'ently  low  to  its  s|)el!s: 
Art  — trutli— psliaw!  now  what  can  they  mat'cr 

Compared  with  Acadt-my  Belles  ? 

T.  n. 


13 


A  PRACTICAL  WOED  ABOUT  SWITZEELAXD. 
^rincipalln  aUtirrascti  to  IBisitar^  ta  tl;c  Xi3.ri^  Gr^ibitian. 


PEOPLE  who  have  spent  all  their 
lives  on  a  plain  in  the  country, 
or  in  towns  aLil  tities,  have  yet  a 
new  sensation  to  experience,  namely, 
the  first  sight  of  a  mountain.  By 
'plain'  I  mean  all  which  is  not  real 
mountain;  it  includes  undulating 
ground,  picturesque  scenery,  downs, 
and  even  the  humbler  hills.  All 
these  may  be  charming  in  their  way ; 
they  will  satisfy  those  who  have  seen 
nothing  grander,  they  will  please 
those  who  have  visited  sublimer 
landscapes,  but  tliey  are  not  moun- 
tains. The  mountain  .still  remains 
a  thing  to  be  seen.  Prints,  pictures, 
stage  decorations,  give  only  a  faint 
idea  of  what  it  is ;  there  is  as  much 
difference  between  them  and  the 
reality  as  there  is  between  a  photo- 
graph and  its  original  in  warm  flesh 
and  blood.  I  have  seen,  even  in 
dreams,  more  beautiful  mountdns — 
not  in  any  way  the  images  of  those 
beheld  m  waking  hours — than  any 
"wliich  pictorial  representation  ever 
produced. 

There  is  this  difference  between  a 
merely  picturesque  and  a  truly 
mountainous  coim'rv — let  us  say,  for 
instance,  l^tweeu  the  prettiest  pai-fs 
of  Devonshire  and  the  grande>t  fea- 
tures of  the  Gmmpiiins— that  the 
former  lend  themseh'-s  to  the  sketcher, 
the  latter  d  fy  him.  The  former 
invite  and  encourage  the  artist's 
efforts,  the  latter  overwhelm  his 
powers  and  make  him  confess  his 
weakness.  The  lamented  Stanfield 
and  other  givat  painters  have  won- 
derfully well  caught  the  distant 
aspect  of  the  granite  crag,  the  bur- 
nished area  of  tl  e  lake,  and  the 
showery  curfcim  veiling  the  shrouded 
peaks.  But,  as  a  rule,  painters  are 
obliged  to  give  us  the  details,  the 
accidents,  the  anecJiotes  (so  to  speak) 
of  mountain  scenery  ;  the  icIk  U  is, 
I  will  not  say  beyond  their  grasp 
(because  poets  grasp  it,  and  every 
great  painter  is  a  poet  at  heart),  but 
bevond  their  means  of  representa- 
tion. 

AVe  have  fine  mountain  scenery 
in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.    From 


the  top  even  of  Snowdon  there  is  a 
grand  si:)ectacle  to  be  gazed  at. 
Argyleshireand  Invemtss-shire  have 
magnidcent  masses  to  show,  which 
sometimes  enjoy  the  great  advan- 
tage of  displaying  their  full  stature 
at  once,  from  the  level  of  the  sea  to 
their  topmost  pinnacle.  The  com- 
position of  Highlaud  scenery  is  often 
I)erfect — put  together  to  satisfy  the 
most  critical  taste ;  and  though  the 
barns  run  lx)ttled  porter,  the  pecu- 
liarity is  comper;sa*ed  for  by  the 
lakes,  without  which  no  mountain 
region  is  complete  in  beauty.  Wit- 
ness the  Pyrenees,  whose  lacustrine 
wealth  is  limited  to  a  few  small  up- 
land tarns.  The  gavts  and  rivulets 
flow  with  li  juid  diamond,  but  the 
ti-aveller  searches  in  vain  for  the 
lake. 

In  the  Permanent  Exhibition 
"which  our  planet  has  opened  there 
is,  however,  something  still  more 
striking  than  an  ordinary  mountain, 
be  it  ever  so  majestic  and  colossal ; 
videlicet,  a  mountain  crowned  with 
eternal  snow  and  surronnde-d  with 
tie  conseqnences  of  eternal  snow. 
These  the  United  Kingdom  does  not 
possess.  And  we  are  better  without 
them,  as  far  as  onr  inateiial  welfare 
is  coneerne<l.  With  our  dense  and 
increasing  population,  taxing  the 
ingenuity  of  agricultural  societies 
to  feed  it,  we  no  more  want  glaciers 
and  avalanches  than  we  want  lions, 
tigers,  and  bears.  We  have  no  room 
for  them;  we  can't  afford  to  keep 
them.  They  are  things  worth  be- 
coming acquainted  with,  neverthe- 
less. 

'And  the  practical  word?'  the 
reader  will  ask. 

Here  it  is,  at  once  forthcoming. 

If  yo'ir  means  are  limited  to  the 
supply  of  your  daily  bread  and  your 
half-yearly  clothing,  you  must  go 
on  and  on,  where  you  are,  thankful 
for  your  Sunday  "«\alk  in  the  fields 
and  your  every -day  enjoyment  of 
God's  air  and  sunshine.  The  birds 
warble  and  the  spring-flowers  bloom 
for  you  as  well  as  for  your  wealthier 
brethren.    But  if  you  earn  or  pos- 


14 


A  Practical  Word  about  Stcitzcrland. 


6CSS  more  than  will  aflonl  Ihnso 
neccssiiry  supplies,  joii  liavo  two 
lines  of  comliict  open  to  joii.  You 
may  go  on  I'litiiiitly  ]ilo(Kling  iu 
business  or  entirely  given  up  to 
]ienurious  faviup,  ailling  moro  to 
more,  heaping  uj)  rielies  in  igno- 
rance of  who  will  come  to  spend 
them,  increasing  your  connections, 
harnessing  a  seeoiul  horse  to  your 
carriage,  supi)!ementing  your  p;\go 
with  a  footiuan  or  your  footniau 
with  a  butkr,  gradually  mixing  (not 
with  people  nally  above  you  but) 
with  i»eopIe  living  in  more  and  moro 
showy  sf^le,  and  eo  on  until  the 
end.  This  may  be  your  h'ta-idc<d 
of  life  as  you  wish  it  to  and  as  it 
should  be. 

in  the  other  course  which  you 
are  permitted  to  choo.se,  if  you  can 
earn  or  economise  a  margin  to  your 
outlay,  you  may  remember  that 
there  is  intellectual  as  well  as  social 
life  to  bo  enjoyed ;  that  there  are 
books  to  be  read  besides  day-books 
and  ledgers ;  things  to  be  considered 
besides  balanceil  accounts;  haunts 
to  be  frequented  besides  tlio.se  of 
business  or  fiishion ;  that  if  man 
made  the  town,  God  made  the  coun- 
try, and  not  cnly  the  country  but 
the  wide,  wide  world  ;  that  if  Art  is 
long.  Nature  is  eternal.  In  short, 
it  may  occur  to  you  that,  in  the 
brief  drama  of  life,  in  which  the 
men  and  women  are  but  [ilayers, 
the  marvels,  beauties,  and  mysteries 
of  Nature  may  alTord  a  few  improv- 
ing and  agreeable  interludes. 

'And  the  occasion?' 

Now. 

'  And  the  means  ?' 

Quite  within  your  reach.  If  you 
can  aflbrd  to  go  to  I'aris,  you  can 
aflbrd  to  go  to  see  a  mountain.  If 
you  can  contrive  to  visit  a  moun- 
tain, you  can  mamge  to  reach  a 
snow-capped  mountain. 

'And  the  time  to  reach  it?' 

Sometiin(S,  I  admit,  le.ss  ca.sy  to 
command  tlian  money;  but  where 
there's  a  will  there's  often  a  way. 
The  rail,  without  actually  annihi- 
lating, has  greatly  abbreviated  both 
pj^ace  and  time.  And  j>erliapH  you 
can  shorten  your  pojourn  in  Pari.s, 
not  unwillingly, and  without  regret. 
Theatrical  bhows  and  restaurant 
dinners  both   pall  on  the  aitijetite 


when  made  our  daily  bread.  A 
general  glance  at  tliei  Exhibition  is 
soon  obtained;  to  study  it  thoroughly 
would  re'ipiire  a  lifetime';  and  before 
your  allotted  term  is  up,  you  are 
likely  to  confess  to  yourself,  in  se- 
cret, that  your  cash  is  going  fast, 
that  yemr  head  is  in  a  whirl,  that 
you  have  had  enough  of  it  and  will 
not  1)0  sorry  to  get  away,  if  only  for 
the  sake  of  a  change. 

'  Such  a  state  of  things  is  very 
po.ssiblo  to  arrive.' 

I  take  you,  then,  at  your  word. 
Write  homo  to  your  sul)ordinate8 
that  you  are  likely  to  be  absent 
(through  unavoidable  and  most  im- 
portant business)  a  little'  longer  than 
you  had  exjiected,  and  that  they 
must  keep  things  properly  going 
meanwhile.  Alter  elinner,  instead 
of  going  to  the  play  or  improving 
your  mind  at  a  cafe  chantant,  call 
for  your  hotel  bill  and  pay  it  up  to 
to-morrow  morning.  Tack  in  a 
basket  a  cold  roast  fowl,  a  pinch  of 
salt,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  bottle  full 
of  half  water  and  half  vin  ordinaire. 
So  (although  by  no  means  eschew- 
ing them)  you  will  be  independent 
of  railway  refresh  men  t.s.  Then, 
early  to  bed,  with  the  comforting 
rellection  that  you  are  making  your 
escape  from  the  I'ari.-ian  maelstrom. 
^Vhat  a  relief!  No  more  eddying 
round  and  round  the  m(ln>^ter  gaso- 
meter !  Fresh  air,  fair  lields,  bright 
vini'yards  instead  I 

It  would  be  a  waste  of  space,  on 
the  present  e)ccasie)n,  to  di.scuss  the 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
railways;  tlu'y  pos.sess  both  in  an 
enu'nent  degree,  and  the  former 
might  be  greatly  increased  to  the 
benefit  of  the  i)ublic  if  the  compa- 
nies did  not  fear  that  their  interests 
would  bo  thereby  affecteil.  Wo 
therefore  take  them  as  tluy  are.  Of 
course  you,  a  tourist  pressed  for 
time,  cannot  traverse  long  distances 
otherwise  than  by  rail.  It  is  Hob- 
son's  choice  as  to  the  means  of  con- 
veyance. Now,  by  rail,  the  most 
direct,  a.s  well  as  the  most  striking 
way  of  entering  Switzerland,  is  from 
Paris  to  Neucliatel,  by  Dijon,  Deile, 
and  Pontarlier,  taking  care  to  do 
the  bit  between  IVdu  or  Pontarlier 
and  Neucliatel  /'//  'IuiiIhjIiI. 

In  i'rench  railway  travelling  your 


A  Practical  Word  about  Switzerland. 


15 


choice  lies,  practically,  between 
going  firbt  class  and  going  tliird 
class ;  for,  in  express  trains,  there 
are  none  but  first-olass  carriages. 
If,  to  save  that  expense,  you  travel 
second  class,  yon  are  compelled  to 
go  by  the  ordinary  omnilms  trains, 
which  stop  at  every  little  station ; 
and  as  in  tliat  case  you  renounce 
the  saving  of  time,  you  may  as  well 
make  the  further  economy  of  travel- 
ling third  class.  The  difference  of 
expense,  when  wide  areas  have  to 
be  swept  over',  is  considerable. 
Thus,  tlie  difference  between  the 
first  and  third-class  fares  from  Paris 
to  Marseilles  for  one  individual  only 
amounts  to  43  francs  60  centimes, 
or  six  days'  board  and  lolging.  [At 
Marseilles,  and  at  Lyons  also,  you 
can  be  well  lodged  and  fed,  ordinary 
wine  included,  in  respectable  and 
comfortable,  though  not  stylish,  ho- 
tels for  6i  francs  per  day.]  It 
therefore  becomes  a  matter  of  se- 
rious consideration  for  persons  to 
whom  expense  is  not  utterly  indif- 
ferent, and  who  care  less  to  take 
their  ease  on  the  road  than  to  ex- 
tend both  the  sweep  and  the  dura- 
tion of  their  tour,  by  which  class 
they  shall  travel.  Young  men  in 
company,  with  hmited  purses,  will 
at  once  appreciate  our  sugges- 
tion. 

For  economical  reasons,  the  pre- 
sent writer  mostly  travels  long  dis- 
tances on  the  Continent  third  class, 
unless  accompanied  by  ladies.  Your 
travelling  companions  are  no  doubt 
a  '  mixtuie,'  which  imi^Iies  that  you 
often  meet,  amongst  them,  well- 
informed,  well-behaved,  and  agree- 
able people,  particularly  persons, 
both  men  and  women,  engaged  in 
commercial  pursuits.  Eudeness  is 
very  rare;  but  is  immediately  put 
down  by  public  protest.  Tipsy  men 
are  less  rare,  but  they  are  held  in 
check  by  the  same  restraint.  On 
the  other  hand,  you  get  a  capital  in- 
sight into  popular  manners  and 
ideas  (supposing  you  understand 
the  language)  which  you  might  have 
a  difficulty  in  acquiring  elsewhere. 
The  great  nuisance  of  French  third- 
class  railway  carriages  is  the  abomi- 
nable pipes  and  the  still  more  abo- 
minable lucifer  matches.  For  this 
there  is  no  remedy;  it  must  be  borne. 


It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  stop  it  by 
appealing  to  autliority.  Smoking 
in  third-class  carriages,  though  con- 
trary to  regirlation,  is  an  admitted, 
tolerated,  establislnd  fact.  You 
might  as  well  beg  yonr  fellow-tra- 
veller not  to  breathe  as  not  to  smoke. 
'  If  you  can't  bear  smoke,  why  don't 
you  go  second  or  first  class  ?'  is  the 
remark,  s]ioken  or  imspoken,  your 
request  would  give  rise  to.  It  is  in 
the  north  of  Fiance,  however,  that 
the  smoking  mania  attains  its  fullest 
development.  The  further  you  go 
south  the  less  you  are  annoyed  by 
the  filthy  fumes  of  foul  toliacco. 

It  is  landerstood  tliat  nothing 
short  of  necessity  will  induce  you 
to  pass  a  night,  or  even  great  part 
of  one,  iu  a  third-class  carriage ; 
but  night-travelling  in  any  class 
does  not  enter  into  our  system. 

There  are,  however,  what  are 
called  'direct'  trains,  intermediate 
in  speed  between  the  express  and 
the  omnibus  trains,  but  going  more 
nearly  at  the  rate  of  the  former  than 
the  latter,  which  do  take  second  and 
third  class  passengers, .  liut  under 
conditions  so  confined  and  trouble- 
some as  to  render  them  of  liitle  use 
to  the  general  traveller.  To  avail 
yourself  of  them,  otherwise  than  by 
first  class,  you  must  take  your  ticket 
from  I\in's  for  enormous  distances. 
At  most  stations  along  the  road  you 
cannot  get  into  them  exce))t  at  the 
higher  rates  of  payment.  Mi^reover, 
during  the  ju'esent  sununer,  '  direct' 
trains  are  iewer  than  they  were  last 
year.  So  tl'.at,  in  f^ict,  it  cinnes,  as 
just  stated,  to  the  choice  betweoi  an 
omnibus  (all  three  classes)  and  an 
ex]n-ess  (first  class  only)  tiain. 

If  you  follow  our  advice,  you  will 
avoid  cheap  excursion  trains,  and 
confine  yourself  to  the  ordinary 
trains  of  the  time  tables.  True,  the 
saving  is  sometimes  enormous ;  but 
so  also  are  the  discomfort  and  the 
fatigue.  For  instance,  this  season, 
excursion  trains  for  the  Exhil)ition 
have  run  from  Marseilles  to  i'aris,  for 
thirty  francs  there  and  back,  third 
class,  the  regular  payment  for  the 
same  distance  being  io6f  loc.  there 
and  back.  But  fancy  going  all  the 
way  from  Marseilles  to  Paris  (five 
hundred  and  forty  English  miles) 
by  the  slowest  of   trains,  without 


16 


A  Practical  Word  about  StoitzerlancL 


stopping,  (lay  and  nijiht,  closely 
p;xckiil  ill  nn  ovon  on  wlieels,  com- 
JK-IU*!  to  slifp  in  11  sitfiii^:  jiosture, 
with  hard  Ivmids  tor  voutfasy  chair 
and  no  pillow  Init  your  niiKhhonr's 
shoulder!  A  ]>ritty  jileasuro  train 
to  take  your  place  in !  And  tlien, 
after  this,  the  si^ht-sct  inp  in  Paris  ; 
and  then  the  ntiirn  lionio  inexactly 
the  same  st\le,  not  on  the  day  or  at 
the  hour  joii  would  choose,  but 
when  the  kiull  sounds  for  tlie  train 
to  carry  \ou  otT  |irici>e!y  asa  tleiuon 
carries  oft"  a  purcl'ased  victim  when 
his  time  is  up!  It  is  enough  to  kill, 
not  a  horse,  l)nt  a  cnature  gifted 
with  the  strengtii  of  fifty  horses. 

We  also  advi.-e  you  to  resist  Ihc 
temptation  of  circular  tickets,  avail- 
able for  a  month  or  so,  issued  at 
proftsseilly  reiluccd  prices,  with  a 
given  itinerary  at  any  point  of  which 
you  miy  stop.  The  offer  is  plaus- 
ible, and  the  sciieiue  far  pieferal)lu 
to  the  pieceding  ;  but  we  have  cal- 
culiitefl  tlie  dit^eience  between  seve- 
ral of  the-e  pretended  cheap  tours 
and  the  price  of  ordinary  trains,  and 
tiie  reduction  male  is  very  trifling 
compared  with  the  loss  of  freedom  it 
involves.  With  your  route  so  laid 
out  f.>r}ou  and  \om- time  so  limited, 
it  is  Very  like  tiavelling  in  a  sfiait- 
jacket  accompaiied  by  a  keeper. 
One  of  tlie  gre;it  enjoynunts  of 
travel  is  the  feeling  of  likrty  it 
gives;  not  to  mention  the  unex- 
pected excursions  and  branchiugs- 
ofT  iiiade  on  tlie  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment. But  with  one  of  thc.ce  book- 
tickets  stuck  in  your  sidi-pocket, 
you  are  con>taiitly  reminded  tbat 
you  are  not  }our  own  master;  you 
are  givtii  in  charge  to  the  care  of 
railway  officers,  /'ost  e'/ri/im  still 
s"/i/ ii/i'f  o'i'i,  i\\^(\  }onT  doctor  has 
told  jou  to  leave  all  care  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water.  lietter  far 
i'.i  it  to  economise  in  some  othtr 
way,  and  to  l-now,  on  going  to  lie<l 
at  niglit,  that  to-moirow  morning 
'  the  world  is  all  before  you  where 
to  choose.' 

On  the  line  wo  arc  considering 
C Paris  to  Dijon  :  station,  Chemiu  du 
Fer  de  Lyon,  ]!oule\nrd  Miiza-s)  an 
omniltus  train  lejives  Paris  at  seven 
in  the  morning,  arriving  at  Dijon  at 
4.51  in  the  aftern(K)n.  .\n  express 
train  leaves  Paris  at  eleven  iu  the 


morning,  arriving  at  5.30.  It  is  a 
question  of  <  arly  rising  /•■  rsus  expen- 
diture. The  dith  nnce  Intween  tho 
hr.^t  and  second  class  fart  sis  8f.  85c., 
or  the  price  of  a  goxl  (bnner  and  a 
l)ed  ;  that  lietwec  11  the  fir.-t  and  third 
is  I  5f.  90c.,  or  the  cost  of  a  (hiy  to  bo 
spent  at  Dijon  or  e'sewhere.  Jiy  con- 
sulting the  latest  i)ub!isl  eil  nunil>ers 
of  the  '  Indicateur  des  Clicmins  de 
Fer'  (to  l>e  haii  tor  four)  ence  at  the 
principal  French  stations  the  reader 
can  calculate  tlie  dillereiico  it  will 
make  to  his  jiocket  by  tiavelliug 
second  or  tliir.l  class  along  every 
other  ))ortion  of  his  loute.  With 
the  savings,  he  will  be  al»le  to  make 
more  tlian  one  ]ilea^aiit  excursion  in 
the  couipe  of  his  trip.* 

At  Dijon,  the  rail  divides.  Instead 
of  going  on  to  [.>ons,  you  iaanchotl 
to  the  left,  pas.-iiig  Anxonne  (a  for- 
tified town),  Dole,  and  Pontarlier, 
at  either  of  whi  h  you  can  get  a 
very  siippf)rtai)le  siij'per  and  bed. 
At  Dole  there  is  a  i|uiet  little  inn 
deserving  a  favouiablo  mention, 
within  a  stone's-thiow  of  the  sta- 
tion, which  is  just  the  ]ilace  to  get  a 
bait  and  a  sleep  m,  and  continue 
your  journey  fiesii  next  morning. 
Pontarlier  is  also  convmieiit,  but 
chilly;  it  is  the  mo>t  elevated  town 
in  France,  being  neaily  three  thou- 
sand feet  above  ihc  level  of  the  sea. 
D' tlie  earth  were  suddenly  removed 
from  under  your  feet,  what  a  nico 
drop  into  the  sta  tlurt!  would  be! 

iSoon  after  having  Pontarlitr,  you 
cross  the  frontier.  The  watershed 
decides  the  territory.  Where  the 
i'l-ook  trickles  to  the  north,  it  still  is 
France  ;  when  it  runs  to  the  south, 
it  is  Switzerland.  We  heartily  wi.sh 
vou  a  bright,  dear  niornim:,  to  make 
the  descent  down  the  Val  de  Tra- 
vel's; but  whether  set  n  for  the  first 
time  in  storm  or  suii'-hiiie,  it  is  a 
thing  not  to  lie;  forgotten  during 
one's  life:  and  whin  at  last  you 
catch  the  Lake,  backed  by  tlie  snowy 
chain  of  the  JnngfiMU,  the  jncturo 
is  enamelled  in  y<mr  memory  in 
colours  that  can  never  fa  lo. 

Neuchatel  is  soon  seen,  with  ita 
lovely  walks  f-kirting  the  water's 
edge.     You  breathe  and  gaze  as  if 

*  i^ee,  lor  furtht.M  liiiiU  on  llii.s  mlj-ct, 
'  C1i<.T(i  Switzodaii'l,'  in  '  Lomlun  ."^miity' 
for  June,  1B64,  p.  504. 


A  Pradical  Woi'd  ahont  Switzerland. 


17 


yoiT  were  strolling  along  a  seashore 
filled  with  gardens;  and  yon  there 
witness  some  of  the  changes  wroni:ht 
by  the  progress  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion. In  New  Zealand,  the  native 
Maori  saying  is, 'As  the  white  man's 
rat  has  driven  away  the  native  rat ; 
as  the  European  fly  drives  away  the 
native  bluebottle;  and  as  the  Bri- 
tish clover  kills  the  indigenous  fern, 
so  will  the  Maories  disappear  before 
the  white  men.'  In  Switzerland,  the 
native  inhabitants  are  not  likely  to 
recede  before  any  other  invading 
race ;  but  as  the  steamer  superseded 
the  row  boat  and  the  sailing  vessel 
on  the  lake,  so  is  the  railway  super- 
seding the  steamer.  The  little  port 
of  Neuchatel  is  all  but,  if  not  quite 
(when  this  is  written)  disused. 

And  no  one  need  regret  the 
change.  The  rail  is  safer  and  surer 
than  the  steamer,  not  to  mention 
pleasanter.  Loss  of  life  on  the 
Swiss  lakes  was  not  unfrequent; 
the  times  of  transit  always  uncer- 
tain ;  and  on  the  larger  lakes,  as 
those  of  Constance,  Geneva,  and  the 
one  we  are  now  admiring,  persons 
subject  to  sickness  at  sea  are  just  as 
sick  wdien  the  waves  run  high. 

The  steamers  still  plying  on  cer- 
tain lakes,  as  those  of  Thun  and 
Brienz,  not  yet  skirted  by  railway, 
may  be  regarded  as  temporary  expe- 
dients whose  days  are  numbered, 
although  we  may  not  be  able  to 
count  the  reckoning.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  engineering,  time,  and  money, 
not  a  question  of  possibility,  when 
Switzerland  is  to  be  riddled 
through  and  through  by  rails. 
But  as  Switzerland  must  become 
every  year  more  and  more  the  Play- 
ground of  the  World,  and  as  there 
is  nothing  of  the  kind  in  the  world 
to  equal  it  as  a  harmonious  and 
accessible  whole,  we  must  accept  as 
inevitable  the  consequences  of  the 
change  of  locomotion  recently  ef- 
fected. 

Per  contra,  if  we  gain  much  in 
convenience,  we  lose  something  in 
romance.  The  Castle  of  Chillon 
shaved  by  frequent  trains,  its  dun- 
geons re-echoing  with  the  locomo- 
tives beat,  and  its  halls  hurried 
tliroiigh  ()y  throngs  of  excursionists 
as  tast  as  the  showman  can  njanage 
to  drive  them,  are  profanations  that 

VOL.  XII. — NO.  I.XVII. 


never  entered  into  poor  Lord  Byron's 
poetical  philosophy. 

At  Neuchiltel,  there  are  two  or 
three  things  which  well  deserve  1o 
receive  your  attention.  One  is  the 
trip  to  La  Chaux-de-Fonds  by  a  rail- 
way which  had  the  steepest  gradient 
in  the  world  — and  may  have  still, 
but  it  is  not  likely,  fur  one  marvel 
so  speedily  outdoes  another.  Yes- 
terday's discoveries  are  so  ridicu- 
lously easy;  to-morrow's  only  are 
difficult.  There  is  a  comfortable  inn 
at  Chaux-de-Fonds  which  was  (and 
may  still  be)  a  phenomenon  of 
cheapness.  Tlie  staple  of  the  town 
is  the  manufacture  of  the  delicate 
parts  of  watches,  which  are  made  at 
high  elevations  where  the  cooler 
temperature  allows  the  workmen  to 
haudlo  them  with  non-persijiring 
fingers.  But  the  American  civil 
war  was  a  cruel  blow  to  the  Swiss 
watch  and  trinket  trade. 

Neuchatel  also  offers  you  an  op- 
portunity of  trying  your  legs  and 
exercising  your  connoisseurship  in 
Swiss  panoramas,  by  ascending  the 
Chaumont,  a  nice  little  walk  that  is 
well  worth  your  undertaking. 

Tourists  often  ask  the  question 
'  Which  points  of  view  are  the  best 
to  visit  ?'  But  about  tastes,  even  in 
Alpine  scenery,  there  is  no  rule  to 
lay  down,  and  no  disputing.  Some 
like  one  thing,  some  another;  and 
every  one  has  a  right  to  stand  uj) 
for  his  own  favourite  mountain. 
Some  points  of  view  owe  much  of 
their  reputation  to  their  partisans 
having  visited  little  else.  Those  who 
have  mounted  no  other  eminence 
than  the  Rigi,  will  naturally  believe 
the  Kulm  panorama uniivalled.  The 
fairest  way,  therefore,  would  be  to 
see  them  all.  But  even  if  a  holiday 
lasted  all  summer,  still  summer  is 
short,  and  Switzerland  is  long. 

Unfortunately,  many  of  the  finest 
views  you  may  go  to  many  times 
and  yet  not  see,  even  in  weather 
that  would  be  called  fine  on  the  plain. 

On  Keller's  mai^,  heights  com- 
manding remarkaiile  views  are 
marked  with  a  star,  thus  *.  But 
to  render  the  indication  yet  more 
complete,  he  ought  to  have  made 
two  kinds  of  stars;  one  denoting 
panoramas  with  an  immense,  almo.'^t 
a  boundless  horizon  and  in  which 


18 


A  Practical  Word  about  SicUzerland. 


tlio  prnnd  objects  of  interest  nro 
very  ilistaiit ;  others,  coinnmiKiint:  an 
extensivo  but  compnrativcly  liiiiilcd 
area,  wlioroin,  moreover,  tlio  lending 
beauties  lie  close  at  baud,  withiu 
easier  eyeshot. 

The  practical  vabic  of  this  distinc- 
tion is,  tiu'  kiiowli'd.u'o  that  tlie  tirst 
class  of  views,  to  show  tlieiuselvcs 
properly,  require  a  jieculiai  ly  trans- 
parent state  of  the  atmosphere, 
which  does  not  often  occur.  Too 
dry,  it  is  hn/y,  and  even  becomes 
opaque  when  a  certain  mass  of  air 
is  interposed  between  tiie  eye  and 
the  ol)ject.  Too  moist,  it  nmy  bo 
suddenly  curdled  into  mist  or 
broken  up  into  sliowers  or  storms. 
For  this  rea.sou,  the  Chaumont  and 
the  Weissensteiu  views — the  one 
just  behind  Neuchfitel,  the  other 
mar  Soleurc  or  Solothurn,  which  is 
within  easy  reach  from  Neuchalcl 
by  rail  — are  too  far  ofT  for  everyday 
display — mucli  too  distant  for  you 
ever  to  be  sure  of  them.  Indistinctly 
seen,  they  are  temptations  to  further 
travel ;  incitements  to  extend  your 
itinerary;  allurements  to  attract  you 
onwards.  \Vhen  you  can  see  them, 
and  cannot  go  on  to  the  Oherland, 
they  make  the  water  come  into  your 
mouth  most  cruelly. 

The  Uetli,  near  Zuricli,  is  open  to 
the  same  observation.  The  immen- 
sity of  area  embraced  by  the  pano- 
rama makes  it  all  the  more  pre- 
carious. In  Switzerland,  the  uncer- 
tainty of  a  view  increases  in 
proportion  to  the  distance.  The 
Berne  view  sometimes  remains  for 
weeks  unseen.  The  Uetli  has  a 
reputation  for  clear  sunrises;  but 
when  we  happened  to  bo  .at  Zurich, 
the  hazy  veil  was  then  so  thick  as 
to  make  it  not  worth  the  trouble  of 
mounting.  The  days  on  which  the 
Chaiuiiont  and  the  Wei.ssenstein 
views  are  well  seen,  are  far  from 
numerf)us  in  the  course  of  the  year. 
In  short,  views  like  tho.«e  are  a  lot- 
tery ;  but  when  you  draw  a  i^rizo,  it 
/.s  a  prize. 

In  these  expeditions,  all  the  lug- 
gage you  want  is  either  a  small  bog 
or  a  knapsack,  which  will  indicate 
your  expenditure  to  be  moderate, 
and  fervc  as  an  introduction  to 
cheap  hotels  or  help  you  to  get 
more  cheaply  lodged  in  dear  ouea. 


Up  the  Chaumont  is  a  capital 
test-walk  for  young  jiedestrians.  If 
they  cannot  do  that  without  l)eing 
blown  at  the  time  and  feeling  weak 
in  the  hams  three  or  four  days  after- 
wards, they  had  better  not  venture 
on  any  higher  climlis.  ]5ut  the  great 
secret  of  avoiding  both  those  incon- 
veniences is  to  walk  very  slowly, 
particularly  at  starting.  Yoii  may 
ride  up  to  the  inn  on  horseback; 
but  by  preferring  thatniethod  to  the 
ten-toe  carringe,  you  incur  an  ex- 
pense of  twelve  or  lifteeu  francs, and 
you  lose  the  training. 

When  we  wallceel  up  the  Chau- 
mont, the  weather  was  fine— much 
too  tine.  The  air  was  so  dry  that 
the  distant  snowy  mountains  were 
veileel  with  lijue  haze  to  such  an 
extent  that  Mont  15 lane  wa.s  sui)- 
prcsscd  from  the  horizon.  The  rest 
of  the  panorama  was  composed  of 
shadowy  forms  with  no  more  dis- 
tinctness than  i>lack  protiie  portraits 
or  the  ill-delined  imngts  ot  a  dream. 
The  eletails  of  the  picture  being  thus 
concealed,  the  imjires.'-ion  ot  its 
vastne.ss  was  much  diminished. 

This  and  the  Weissen.stem  are 
afternoon  views.  To  see  them  well 
you  must  wait  till  the  sun  gets 
round,  to  throw  its  glare  on  ttio 
snowy  tianks  of  tiie  Alps,  which 
face  you.  Consequently,  in  both 
these  cases,  sunrise  hunting  is  quite 
a  mistake. 

A  l)reakfast  for  two,  up  the  Chau- 
mont, costing  altogetlier  f,t  loc, 
consisted  of  one  t)f>ttlo  of  wine,  one 
cold  fowl,  one  plate  of  ham,  one 
plate  ot  preserved  melon,  butter  and 
l)rcad,  coHec,  and  one  small  glass  of 
cognac. 

From  the  above  it  will  appear 
that  the  Chaumont  is  quite  worth 
trying,  when  y(m  are  .so  near  it  as 
Xeuchatel  is.  Jlveii  without  a  guielo 
you  can  hardly  miss  your  way. 
ytarting  from  the  f)lel  cIoeMc-tower 
gate  of  Xeuclu'ite  1,  there  is  a  narrow 
paved  lane,  calkid  the  line  do  St. 
Jean,  between  two  walls.  Follow 
that  straiglitupwarels,  crossing,  when 
you  reach  it,  the  highroad  to  La 
Chai'X-ele  Femds,  and  following  a 
lane  or  path  still  upwards.  It  will 
take  you  withf)Ut  fad  to  the  Chau- 
me)nt,  where  you  will  find  an  un- 
prettuding    but     comfortable    inn 


A  Practical  Word  about  Switzerland, 


19 


•within  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk 
of  the  top.  As  to  what  you  see 
wlien  you  get  tliere,  you  must  take 
your  cliaiice  like  otiier  travellers. 
You  will  at  least  have  enjoyed  the 
air  and  the  exercise.  lUit  all  hill 
clicubing,  great  and  small, is  a  game 
of  chaiice,  in  which  prudence  and 
torethought  will  sometimes  have 
tlieir  intliience,  though  hazard  will 
olten  be  the  ruling  power.  No  one 
can  command  or  foresee  the  weather, 
however  shrewdly  he  may  guess ; 
and  success,  and  even  safety,  in 
really  Alpine  expeditions,  depend 
upon  very  slight  variations  of  the 
weather  rather  than  upon  the  abili- 
ties of  the  adventurers  who  engage 
in  them.  A  young,  light  walker  of 
no  great  pedestrian  preteu-ious  may 
on  Monday  easily  ascend  a  mountain 
which  on  Tuesday  will  be  altogether 
inaccessible  to  the  ablest  moun- 
taineers. Eminences  commanding 
views  within  limited  range  are  often 
covered  by  a  day— or  night  -cup  of 
mist,  which  will  come  on  in  half  an 
hour,  and  take  itself  off  when  it 
pleases.  How  many  hundreds  and 
thousands  have  been  up  the  Rigi, 
and  come  down  again  without  seeing 
more  than  the  hotels  at  the  top,  and 
the  respective  pathways  leading  to 
them. 

JNevertheiess,  the  iiigi  is  a  delec- 
table hill,  in  spite  of  its  uncertainty, 
its  mendicants,  and  its  extortioners. 
It  is  no  more  hacknied,  worn  out, 
or  used  up  than  is  the  seabeach  in 
autumn  or  tlie  forest  in  spring.  A 
pleasant  way  of  mounting  is  to  start 
from  Art,  at  the  lower  extremity  of 
the  lake  of  Zng ;  you  will  be  shaded 
from  the  afternoon  sun.  Bo  not 
astonished  if  at  Rigi  Dachsi  they 
charge  you  a  franc  and  a  half  for 
naif  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  try  hard 
tomduce  you  to  sleep  there,  alleging 
as  an  inducement  that  you  can  easily 
start  at  two  next  morning.  From 
this  path  you  look  down  on  the  site 
of  the  village  of  Goldau,  buried  by 
an  earthslip  so  suddenly  tliat  it 
crushed  members  of  the  same  tra- 
velling party,  sparing  others.  A 
bridegroom  and  his  bride  walked 
into  Goldau ;  one  was  taken,  the 
other  left.  A  tutor  and  hig  pupil 
tried  to  enter  the  village ;  ono  was 
taken,  the  other  left. 


Bat  Nature  soon  hides  lier  evil 
deeds,  and  covers  her  cruel  catas- 
trophes. The  sea  smiles  brightly 
over  the  snnken  ship;  the  earth- 
deluge  of  Gi.'ldiu  and  the  dead  it 
covers  will  soon  be  hidilen  by  a 
vigorous  jouiig  pine-fort st,  sown 
over  them  as  a  winding-sheet  by  the 
pitying  winds. 

From  Bigi  Staffcl  there  is  a  de- 
lightful walk  along  the  ridge  of  the 
mountain  to  Kigi  Scheideck,  You 
keep  always  up  ;  up,  up,  up,  with 
magniticeut  views  on  either  side, 
and  gentians  by  armfuls,  and  ferns 
by  cartloads.  If  a  shower  comes  on, 
it  gives  you  a  rainbow  lying  flat-, 
below  on  the  mountain  side,  instead 
of  spanning  the  upper  heavens. 
The  Rigi,  you  note,  is  an  extremely 
Catholic  hill,  abounding  with  chapels 
full  of  graven  (and  horribly  painted) 
images,  and  profusely  sprinkled 
with  crosses,  great  and  small,  at 
every  point  and  on  every  eminence. 
At  Rigi  Scbeideck  is  a  good  and 
reasonable  hotel,  where  you  may 
linger  a  while  pleasantly,  by  night  or 
by  day,  before  stooping  from  your 
airy  height. 

You  descend  to  Gersau,  at  the 
water's  edge  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne, 
by  a  most  rjjpid  slope,  an  intermi- 
nable staircase,  excessively  trying  to 
the  crural  muscles.  But  for  the 
open  space  in  front,  it  is  like  crawl- 
ing down  a  chimney,  or  walking  to 
the  bottom  of  a  well  with  one  side 
open.  The  elevation  of  Scheideck 
being  greater  than  that  of  Staffel, 
the  dip  down  to  the  level  of  the  lake 
is  consequently  deeper. 

Gersau,  once  the  smallest  republic 
in  the  world,  but  now  '  annexed '  to 
the  canton  in  which  it  is  situated, 
is  a  village  without  streets  and  roads, 
and  therefore  without  carriages.  The 
houses  communicate  with  each  other 
by  paths  resembling  garden-walks. 
A  few  horses  are  kept  as  curiosities, 
and  to  carry  travellers  up  to  Schei 
deck ;  but  the  piincip.il  means  of 
access  to  the  outer  world  are  boats 
and  steamers.  There  are  two  hotels, 
an  old  established  and  a  new  one, 
at  which  the  steamers  c.ill  on  alter- 
nate weeks;  but  as  }ou  are  always 
at  liberty  to  make  your  choice,  we 
counsel  you  to  try  the  new  one. 

Gersau  is  one  of  the  last  reti-eats 

0   2 


20 


A  Practical  Word  about  Switzerland. 


of  yoodle  singing,  for  ilioso  who 
like  it.  There  wiu:,  ami  i)ro')ably 
still  is,  a  fellow  tliero  giving  ittx  d- 
poitriiif — iip}>cr  C's  from  tlic  chest 
— that  would  make  an  o]wv>x  tenor's 
fortune.  IIo  ha.s  a  voice  pcrftctly 
conipttont  to  crack  a  cliurch  I>ell ; 
but  his  jK-rformanco  is  no  more 
'singing'  tlinn  were  the  s-ronaiJes 
of  tlie  Jew's  cats  apostroi)liist  d  hy 
Peter  rindnr  as  '  Singers  of  Israel, 
0  ye  singers  sweet.' 

But  we  have  slipped  away  some- 
how from  Neuchi'itcl,  and  must  now 
slip  hack  again,  to  leave  it  in  proju-r 
form,  ?'.'.,  hy  rail,  which  carrirs  you 
smootlily  and  picturesquely  to  IVrnc, 
where  there  is  plenty  to  see  and  do. 
Mere  instinct  will  guide  you  to  tlie 
platform  wlu-re  the  dithedral  stand.s, 
and  other  sights;  but  wejKirticularly 
recommend  you  to  the  Mu.seum,  for 
the  sake  of  its  models  of  mountain 
tracts  in  relief,  and  its  specimens  of 
rare  creatures  found  in  tiie  country; 
such  as  the  Liimniorcciir  or  luml)- 
vulturc,  tlie  bearded  Gypaetos  bar- 
batus  (all  the  Lammergeiei-s  have 
a  tuft  under  the  cbin) ;  the  lynx  of 
the  CJrisons.ungallantly  stykd  tlioi'o 
an  Altcs  Weib,  or  Old  Woman  iu 
winter,  but  in  summer  a  Wcih 
merely  ;  at  three  months  old  a  little 
devil ;  at  eight  months  a  perfect 
demon;  and  thit  frightful  fish  the 
Siluriis  glanis,  from  the  Lake  of 
Morat,  but  white  fleshed,  really 
goiKl  to  eat,  and  attaining  a  weight 
of  .seventy  pounds,  which  there  has 
been  talk  of  acclimatising  here. 

From  Berne  you  glide  gently 
onwards  to  Tliun,  the  prettiest  of 
little  lacustrine  towns,  where  you 
may  either  enjoy  picturesque  retire- 
ment or  watch  the  world  as  it  goes, 
nnseen.  Jieep  arcades  protect  you 
from  the  heat  and  the  rain  ;  green 
shnttcis  and  striped  blinds  keej)  out 
the  glare  of  the  sun  ;  galleries 
draped  with  Virginian  creepers  lend 
theiuFelves  to  shading  and  stage 
effect.  Flowerpots  abound  in  mul- 
titudinous windows,  simjdy  t^)  give 
the  fair  Thnnnese  an  opp(jrtunify  of 
coming  forward  to  jiick  off  jlead 
haves;  while  every  ek vat- d  corner 
is  made  to  Ferve  ns  a  watch-tower — 
a  sharp  sighted  lo'tk  out,  trellised 
wit''  v(  rdure— a  pe<  i)hole  garlanded 
with  foliage  and  flowers.     No  one 


appears  poor  in  Thun,  thongh  we 
are  assured  there  are  poor  in  Ihe 
secluded  valleys.  The  lion  of  Thun 
is  the  view  from  the  c«  nietery,  to 
which  \o\\  mount  by  a  long  covered 
staircase,  composed  of  low  steps  fit 
for  children's  feet.  Half  way  up  is 
a  Iai;ding-i)Iaco,  the  centre  of  live 
diverj-'ing  staircases,  Fome  running 
nj)  and  .some  down. 

Before  and  below  you  lies  the 
lake,  in  one  of  the  loveliest  frame- 
worlds  to  be  found  on  earth.  Al- 
though so  high  above  the  level  of 
the  .sea,  vineyards  prosper  on  tlio 
sunny  slopes  ;  and  notwithstanding 
the  immensity  of  its  scale,  the 
countiy  has  all  the  ncntnes'^  of  a 
we!l-kei)t  park,  or  a  we!I-watered 
garden.  All  is  bright.  The  la'je  is 
bright  blue,  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain bright  green,  the  Alpine  peaks 
bright  white.  Softer  hut s  of  utmost 
richntss  gleam  from  the  grey  crags 
and  thesom'tre  pine-woods. 

A  steamer  still  runs  from  Thuu 
to  Un*erseen  ;  but  one  of  the.se  diiys 
a  railway  will  skirt  the  rocky  shore. 
This  steamer  is  a  .sort  of  moving 
theatre  ;  only  instead  of  mechanists 
to  change  the  scenery,  the  real 
acting  .'■ceneshifters  are  the  men  at 
the  engine  and  the  helm.  The  deck 
of  the  boat  is  covered  with  rogular 
seats,  some  looking  forwards  and 
others  aft,  with  a  back  in  the  middle. 
It  is  an  opera  pit,  with  a  strijied 
awning  in.stead  of  a  painted  ceiling, 
and  the  glorious  sun  hung  ovcr- 
liead  to  ful  fU  the  olhco  of  a  ga.s- 
lighttd  lustre.  The  attraction  being 
great,  this  is  crowded  each  niorm'ng 
with  ft  fashionable  audience,  mostly 
English.  The  clock  strikes  one,  the 
bell  rings,  and  the  performance 
l)egins.  Bar-sing  a  chateau  in  the 
stuck-up  style  of  architecture,  wo 
drink  in  beauty  with  our  eyes.  How 
did  the  Swi.ss  learn  to  harmom'se  so 
well  the  forms  of  their  buildings 
with  the  character  of  their  scenery  ? 

Towards  the  head  of  the  lake  tho 
mass  of  the  mountains  becomes  so 
enormous  that  the  clusters  of  cot- 
tages at  their  fof)t  look  like  tho 
dwellings  of  insects.  And  so  you 
arc  safely  lai  ded  at  Neuhaus,  whence 
omnil>u!-es  take  you  to  Unter.-een 
and  Iiderlacken.  theshelterc  dcmlr 
of  all  things  Swi.ss. 


21 


HOUSE  HUNTING. 


''pWO  months  to  quarter-day — 
A  should  we  give  our  landlord 
notice  to  quit?  Oar  house  had 
some  faults,  our  ideal  house  had 
none— this  decided  the  matter.  We 
required  a  small  detached  house 
with  gardens,  stable  and  coach- 
house, two  or  three  acres  of  grazing 
land,  and  near  a  town — above  all 
things  it  must  be  a  cheerful  house. 
Ours  was  a  town  of  some  note:  in- 
deed the  house  agent  called  himself 
the  '  East  of  England  House  and 
Estate  Agency  Office.'  Photographs 
of  desiraMe  residences  adorned  his 
walls;    maps    of   the    surrounding 


neighbourhood  were  spread  before 
us.  Whatever  house  we  took  he 
would  extend  to  us  the  blessings  of 
insurance.  He  proved  that  our 
town  was  the  healthiest  in  England, 
except  one,  its  advantages  were  set 
forth  in  a  printed  letter.  Ho  con- 
sidered the  world  divided  into  two 
classes— those  who  wanted  houses 
and  those  who  wanted  to  let  houses. 
The  printed  list  dwindled  down  to 
some  five  or  six  apparently  suitable. 
House  No.  I  was  a  good  house  but 
low  and  dull.  Our  experience  leads 
us  to  believe  people  go  out  of  their 
way  to  build  country  houses  in  dull 


22 


House  Huniinrj. 


Bituations.  The  next  wo  saw  was 
inlialiittd  by  a  geiitleiiiaii  wlio  was 
at  daggers  drawn  with  his  hindlonl- 
touanoy.  The  tfiiancy  was  most  iiii- 
eatisraclory :  lie  had  four  laiidlurtls 
— tho  two  l>n)lhL'rs  and  tlic  two 
sisti-rs'  buslunds.  and  wliat  one 
j)romiscd  tiic  otlior  olyoctcil  to. 
There  were  three  stacks  of  chiiu- 
iieys;  the  two  outer  Iiad  fallen  down 
ail  1  l>(cii  rt-l>iiilt,  the  centre  .stack 
IkuI  not  fid'cM  down  ut.  Tlu;  jilas- 
li'T  of  h's  l)eilriioni  ceiling  had  conic 
d  ivvu,  and  wlmt  day,  dojou  think, 
his  landlord  s-cnt  workmen  to  U])air 
it?  The  \ery  day  his  clnldnu  c.une 
home  from  school.  At  our  mxt  at- 
tempt we  found  the  hushand  and 
wife  persisted  in  talking  together. 
II.  'The   house    was    occupied    by 

Mr.  Jones,  who    left    becau.'-e ' 

AV.    '  Here   is   a   ci.•^te^l  containing 

ttiree  hun<lred  gallons  of  water ' 

II.  'He  often    says  he    wishes ' 

W.  '  You  may  think  tho  neigh- 
bourhood of  tho  cemetery  an  ob- 
jection  '  II.  •  That  his  busi- 
ness had  allowed '     \V. '  But  tho 

lunenils    never  pa.'^s   the  door ' 

Il.'IIiui  to  continue  to  re.^ide ' 

W.  '  In   the    kitchen     garden ' 

II.   '  But    ho    found    that  his  cirly 

business   liour.s '      W.   '  ^Vhl(•h 

require  weeiling/  &c.,  &c.  AVhy 
did  a  friend  tend  ns  some  di!<- 
tance  to  see  a  liouse  which  was  not 
t)lfct?  A  tenant  of  an  appur.  ntly 
suitable  hou.'e,  in  reply  to  our  in- 
quiry if  it  wasilry,  taid  '  sometimes.' 
One  landlord,  to  cover  the  dainp- 
ues^of  the  whole  .side  of  the  hou.'-e, 
employed  a  workman  to  wet  it  all, 
the  morning  of  tho  a])pointed  in- 
spection day,  on  the  i)retence  of 
putting  up  new  paper.  We  have 
lun  out  our  tether;  tho  'Kast  of 
Kngland  lloiiso  and  Estate  Agency 
Cilice' can  aid  us  no  further.  Our 
first  plan  has  lailed,  and  with  it  our 
sanguine  sjtirit.s.  Our  dinicullies 
now  loom  dimly  K-foro  ns.  AVo 
ricxt  oj)en  n  '  County  Directory,'  and 
wrifo  to  tho  liou.so  ageiit.s  of  tho 
vari  lus  county  towns.  Some  do  not 
answer,  some  reply  they  have  no- 
thing of  tho  tla.s.s  wo  \Mi\\\,  one  only 
liolds  out  any  hoj)e.  In  inspi  cling 
this  IiuUao  wc  find  our  progress 
made  ea.^y  ;  the  servants  Jiave  Uxn 
trained  to  meet  u.s  at  i)re-arrauged 


points  in  our  progress  and  bring  to 
our  notit-e  all  the  advantages.  This 
was  ji  very  good  liousu  -but  tho 
land  otTered  with  it!  In  the  midst 
of  tirst-rate  pasture  land;  wliy,  oh! 
why,  does  our  landloid  take  us  to 
SCO  tlio.so  water  jirivilegcs  with 
islands  of  sedges  at  ui  ccitnin  inter- 
Tals?  "We  will  no  loni-'er  trust  to 
country  agents,  wo  will  write  to 
London  men.  The  owners  of  tho 
c.iuiitiy  liouscs  recominciiiled  by  tho 
Londiu  agents  do  not  answer  our 
letters.  What  can  we  do?  Failure 
upon  failure  heaped!  Give  us 
'  ihad.shaw' -we  will  take  a  tour. 
AVe  arri\c  at  a  house  in  the  suburl)S 
of  a  town.  We  waive  minor  objec- 
tions :  after  all  the  .spring  in  tho 
cellar  has  been  drained  off;  we  talk 
to  the  landlord  in  the  paddock  abfmt 
terms,  when  suddenly  the  grouml 
trembles,  we  look  round  to  find  our- 
selves enveloped  in  steam  — a  rail- 
way i)a.sses  immediately  at  the  back 
of  the  ])remi.ses.  In  another  houso 
we  hear  voices  in  tho  diawing-roora 
ns  the  front  door  is  opened  ;  we  like 
the  house  and  we  go  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  ste  the  owner  ;  the  voices 
rise  before  our  appioich  and  die 
away  as  wo  enter  the  room.  Alas! 
Mr.  Knox  has  just  taken  tiic  liou.so. 
In  our  next  efrsay  the  landlord 
liinjis.  AVe  feel  convinced  his  lame- 
ness aii.ses  from  rheumatism  caught 
on  the  prennVes.  At  the  next  town 
we  f-ee  two  houses,  one  damp  with 
no  view,  the  other  near  a  factory. 
"We  are  advised  to  advertise  in  the 
local  ]iapers.  Wo  return  homo  to 
do  so : — 

'  Wanfod,  in  the  Eastern  Counties 
of  England,  a  detached  nnfiiiiii.--lied 
residence,  drawing  room  nit  le-ss 
than  \(iy.  i6,  coadi-Iiouse  and  .--talilo, 
fruit  and  kitchen  gnrdens,  with  three 
or  four  acres  (or  thereabouts)  of 
mtadow  land— orchard  not  objected 
to.  The  neighbourhood  of  a  town 
preferred. — Addres.s,  A.  13.,  27,  West 
Street.' 

Wo  receive  several  letters;  tho 
greater  number  are  from  oilier  local 
J)aj)ers  giving  us  their  terms  for  ad- 
vertisement ;  some  contiiin  notices 
of  hou.'-es  \so  have  alieady  seen. 
We  open  communications.  One  of 
the  most  )tromising,  alter  re(]uesling 
relerence,  cVc,  inlorms  us  ho  cannot 


A  Commemoration  Dirge.  23 

unfurtiish  ntiToss  he  finds  tlio  tenant  and  adverfjcemenfs.  Our  pride 
suitable.  Are  we  expected  to  go  to  must  have  a  fall.  Perish  visions  of 
the  north  of  England  to  see  if  we  cows,  pigs,  and  poultry!  for  us  no 
are  considered  suitable?  Why  was  carriage  will  wander  in  shady  coun- 
our  advertisemetit  answered  if  the  try  lanes,  no  fruit  or  kitchen  gar- 
house  was  furnished?  Why  do  dens  will  repay  our  care — the  apple- 
people  exchange  letters  and  then  trees  will  blossom,  but  not  for  us 
inform  me  they  only  want  to  sell?  their  garnered  store. — We  live  in  a 
What  is  to  bo  done?  We  have  semi-detached  villa  at  a  watering- 
spent  thirteen  pounds  in  travelling  place.  P.  D. 


A  COMMEMOEATION  DIEGE. 

IT  is  strange  how  slow  my  fancies 
Tangibility  assume, 
As  my  eye  throws  restless  glances 
On  each  fraction  of  the  room. 

Faintly  come  the  wonted  sallies ; 

My  ideas  are  void  and  rank  ; 
In  my  hand  a  goosequill  dallies. 

And  the  sheet  beneath  is  blank. 

'Tis  in  vain  that  from  the  pewter 
Copious  draughts  I'm  gulping  down; 

For  my  sorrow  grows  acuter, 
And  my  woes  refuse  to  drown. 

Drrary  is  each  recollection, 

From  the  Sunday  evening  when 

All  the  Broad,  in  its  perfection, 
Was  a  crawling  mass  of  men. 

Drear  the  memory  of  that  se?ision 
On  a  blister'd  barge's  summit, 

When  I  watched  the  boats'  procession 
O'er  the  silver  Isis  come  it. 

Drear  the  thoughts  of  those  sarcastic 
Shouts  which  all  my  voice  exerted, 

When  a  crew,  enthusiastic, 
Softly,  boat  and  all,  inverted. 

And,  with  nonchalance  assumed, 
But  with  total  dearth  of  hats. 

Out  the  crew  shirks,  black  and  humid. 
Like  to  Muses  nine — or  rats. 

Then  the  Theatre,  resounding 

To  commemorate  the  story 
Of  the  ancient  founders  founding, 

Sainted  now  in  *  ghastly  glory !' 

And  the  cheers — and  cheers  additional; 

And  the  screaming  with  delight ; 
And  the  jokes,  that  were  traditional. 

At  the  man  whose  hat  was  white. 


2»  A  Commemoration  Dirge, 

Deeper  lies  my  sorrow.    Deeper, 
iK'i'per  far  tlie  canker  lurks: 

Woulil  1  wore  eoiue  trailer'.!  slteperl 
(As  they  say  among  tliu  Turks.) 


It  wa.s  at  a  liall.     Her  dancing 
Wus  perftction.     Every  cliarm — 

Supple  waist,  and  smile  eiitrancing, 
And  an  arm,  oh!  such  an  arm! 

And  intoxicate  emotions 

Tlirnugli  my  manly  ponl  did  ponr; 
And  tlie  chanipafine  (lowed  in  oceans. 

And  intoxicated  more. 


Tims  it  was  that  when  the  morrow. 
Breaking  o'er  whate'er  alive  is, 

To  the  poor  man  brought  his  sorrow; 
And  his  soda  unto  Dives; 

And  to  scouts,  the  crafty  chuckles 
Of  the  youths  who  chaiiels  shun; 

And  to  sported  oak  the  knuckles 
Of  the  imacknowledged  '  dun.' 

Thus,  I  .':ay,  when  morning  chilly 
^^'oko  my  spirit  in  my  breast, 

Unto  me  there  came  a  billet, 
In  my  tranquil  place  of  rest. 

'Sir,  yonr  future  father,  Closes, 
Has  the  hdiiour  to  address  you. 

May  your  jxitli  bo  one  of  roses  ! 

May  you  both  bo  happy !     Bless  you  I* 

•  •  •  • 

Kow,  alone,  beside  ray  liquor, 
With  my  hands  in  either  ])ocket, 

Do  I  watch  the  night  lamp  flicker. 
Suicidal  in  its  socket. 

Till  its  fnto  is  consummatcfl ; 

And,  like  Noah  in  the  ark— 
As  authentically  stated — 

I'm  deserted  in  the  dark. 

Draw  the  moral— and  the  cnrtafn. 

-Never  driidv',  and  never  choose 
rarlncra  when  their  forte  is  flirting. 

Ami  their  ancestors  are  Jews. 


-^^^ 


25 


ILFRACOMBB. 


IT  was  not  at  all  pleasant,  my  last 
visit  to  Ilfracoiube,  last  year.  It 
was  a  Friday  eveuiug,  I  recollect, 
when  I  anived,  witli  tlie  torturicg 
reflection  that  I  had  only  a  couple 
of  hours  of  the  summer  twilight  to 
survey  the  place,  aud  that  having  an 
unavoidable  engagement  at  Pen- 
zance for  Saturday  afternoon  I  could 
only  find  time  for  this  hurried 
glimpse,  and  the  brief  .pleasure  I 
could  allow  myself  would  necessi- 
tate my  travelling  all  night.  But 
what  wouderftd  glimpses  those  were 
which  I  obtained!  The  first  burst 
of  the  vast  lonely  sea,  the  Lilliputian 
harbour,  the  shadowy  combes,  the 
sweet  embowered  country  lanes, 
where  the  air  was  almost  languid 
with  the  perfume  of  roses  and  honey- 
suckle. A  gentle  rain  came  on, 
what  time  the  shadows  cloud  it 
more  deeply,  and  I  sought  my  hotel, 
decent  enough  according  to  its 
lights  but  with  a  pervading  element 
of  horsehair.  Eleven  o'clock  came 
and  twelve ;  I  was  sleepy  and  we  iry, 
but  it  was  written  in  the  fates  that 
I  was  not  to  sleep  that  night.  I  was 
to  pay  dearly  for  the  stolen  joys  of 
Ilfracombe,  the  flying  visit,  when 
time  for  visiting  there  was  none. 
The  steamer  from  Bristol  to  Hoyle 
was  coming  down  that  night,  and  I 
was  to  be  a  passenger  therein,  and 
1  calculated  tiiat  I  bliould  be  able  to 
reach  Penzance  by  noon  next  day. 
But  I  had  quite  failed  to  compre- 
hend the  horrors  of  the  situation.  It 
happened  thus.  Half  an  hour  past 
midnight  a  sailor  came  from  the 
pier  and  announced  that  it  was  time 
to  go  oil  to  meet  the  steamer.  A 
man  took  a  lamp  and  preceded  me 
down  the  rough  slippery  steps  cut 
in  the  rock  to  the  water's  edge.  A 
boat  was  waiting.  Then  we  put  out, 
some  half-mile  perhaps,  into  the 
sea.  There  was  a  frightful  swell  at 
the  time.  The  situation  was  more 
picturesque  and  dramatic  than  often 
happens  in  a  commonplace  and  con- 
ventional life;  but  still  to  be  boxing 
about  on  a  dark  drizzly  night,  off  a 
rocky  coast,  in  a  lonely  boat,  in  a 
heavy  sea,  at  about  one  o'clock  in 


the  morning,  is,  erede  eorperlo,  some- 
thing of  a  very  peculiar  kind,  and 
likely  to  make  one  ever  afterwards 
vote  in  favour  of  the  conventionali- 
ties. Soon  the  great  lights  of  the 
steamer  were  visible ;  she  seemed  to 
be  ferociously  bearing  down  with 
the  intention  of  sailing  over  us; 
presently  the  boat  was  dancing  about 
like  a  cork  in  the  wash  of  her 
waves.  By -and- by  I  found  myself 
on  the  deck  of  the  steamer ;  and  a 
man  who  was  tranquilly  smoking  a 
cigar  philosophically  observed  to 
me,  '  The  last  time  I  saw  that  sort 
of  thing  the  boat  was  cut  in  half.'  I 
have  since  seen  a  paragraph  in  some 
local  paper  saying  that  this  very 
boat,  or  one  just  like  it,  actually  was 
swamped  in  going  off  to  this  or 
some  other  steamer.  I  am  glad  it 
was  not  my  case,  in  that  heavy  sea, 
that  dark  night.  I  kept  my  engage- 
ment at  Penzance  on  the  Saturday, 
but  so  far  from  the  Jiac  olim  mami- 
nisse  juvuhit  theory  being  correct  I 
always  look  u})on  that  night's  voyage 
off  the  North  Devon  and  North 
Cornwall  coast  with  intenst  st  horror. 
I  resolved  to  revisit  Ilfracombe, 
and  to  revisit  it  at  my  leisure. 
Lately  a  lady  descanted  to  me,  most 
eloquently,  of  the  beauty  of  the  North 
Devon  shores.  She  had  been  there, 
she  told  me,  on  her  bridal  tour,  and 
in  these  cases  I  fear  it  is  rather  dif- 
ficult to  discriminate  between  the 
faithful  rendering  of  the  artist  and 
the  emotional  reminiscences  of  the 
bride.  But  common  fame  and  one's 
own  impressions  are  enough  without 
the  heart-coloured  descriptions  of 
bridal  pairs  such  as  numerously 
wander  along  this  noble  shore.  So 
I  am  taking  things  leisurely,  and  all 
the  mornings  1  have  enjoyed  the 
luxnry  of  lounging  on  sofas,  reading 
a  novel,  taking  brandy  and  seltzer 
water,  listening  to  pretty  girls  talk- 
ing about  sea-anemones,  shells,  ro- 
mantic walks,  and  ritualism,  and 
hearing  an  amusing  card  tell  of  his 
experiences  at  Heidel burg, — how  Ba- 
varian beer  beats  all  other  beer,  how 
an  old  professor  never  lectured  on 
anything  else  but  Goethe's  '  Faust/ 


26 


IJfracomhe. 


and  how  tho  Btndcnts  with  their 
l)lnnto(i  rapiers  pcncrally  contrived 
to  slash  tlie  liunian  no'^o.  It  was  a 
great  mistake  to  do  IliVacoiubo 
otherwise  than  thorouglily.  As  a 
future  rule  in  life,  let  mo  always 
aim  at  doing  too  little  tiiau  doing 
too  luucli,  and  let  no  peripatetic 
philosopher  he  fo  unphilosopliical 
as  to  think  that  ho  can  'do'Ilfra- 
comho  in  a  couple  of  hours.  Let 
liini  wait  till  he  can  do  it  leisurely. 
I  am  glad  to  find  myself  here  again, 
and  witli  plenty  of  time  on  liand.  It 
does  not  very  olten  liapjien  in  this 
brief,  hurried  life,  that  Yarrow  In- 
comes Yarrow  Revisited.  Also  let 
mc  say  that  my  surrouu'lings  arc 
agreeable.  Since  I  was  hero  last  a 
vast  hotel  has  sprung  up  like  an 
Aladdin's  palace.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  of  its  kind,  and  of 
an  imposing  magnitude  for  a  little 
town  like  lifracoiube,  but  I  presume 
its  promoters  have  taken  the  mea- 
sure of  the  growing  popularity  of 
the  watcriiig-j)lace.  Its  dining-room 
is  a  va.st  hall,  as  large  as  the  re- 
nowned sail''  a  maiifj'-r  of  tlie  Louvre 
IlOtel  or  tho  Grand  Hotel.  The 
drawing-room  is  as  delightful  a  mlvn 
as  tiiose  so  favourably  remembered 
by  most  of  us  in  South  Switzerland 
and  Italy.  Our  insular  stifl'ness 
and  angularity  has  given  i^lace  to 
that  grace  and  elegance  which  some 
of  our  latest  large  hotels  have  bor- 
rowed from  the  Continent.  There 
are  more  than  two  hun<lred  rooms 
in  all,  good  grounds,  and  a  delight- 
ful marine  j)rospect  from  the  win- 
dows. Tho  list  of  prices,  as  com- 
pared with  mc)st  hotel  tarifl'-i,  is 
moderate.  When  tho  hotel  is  tilled 
with  guests  it  will  hold  a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  vi-itors  in  Ilfra- 
couibe.  The  ordinary  drawback  of  an 
English  watering-place  is  the  isola- 
tion of  vi.'-itors,  the  want  of  cheerful 
intercourse  antl  general  society ;  Imt  if 
tho  hotel  plans  attain  their  merited 
6ucces.s  the  social  charaeter  of  llfra- 
comltc  will  have  changed  for  the 
better,  and  it  will  not  only  be  one  of 
the  most  picture .sipie  but  one  of  the 
gayest  and  most  cheerful  ol  water- 
ing-places. 

It  must  1)0  owned  that  in  itself  tlie 
town  of  Ilfracomlio  is  not  of  the  mo-t 
cheering  and  attractive  kind.     Its 


main  street  realizes  tho  'long,  un- 
lovely street'  of  Tennyson,  many 
second-rate  inns,  shops  modeialely 
good,  and  buildings  in  tlie  eipially 
rc])ellant  ])ositions  of  construction 
and  destruction.  There  are  a  few 
public  edifices;  markets  built  ter- 
raco-wiso  on  tiie  hills  that  climb 
from  the  sea  to  tho  town;  pul)lic 
reailing-room  not  over  well  supplied 
with  i)eriodicals ;  ])ul)lic  baths;  all 
of  which  jtut  togelher  would  not 
make  up  the  size  of  the  new  hotel. 
There  are  also  two  churches,  and 
chapels  in  great  abunilance;  the 
Ilfracoiubo  mind  has  manifestly  a 
great  proclivity  towards  ecclesias- 
tical distinctions.  Ilfracoiubo  is  not 
a  gem  set  in  a  rude  casket,  but  it  is 
something  rude  and  unformed  set  in 
tho  loveliest  and  most  glorious  of 
caskets.  There  is  indeed  something 
very  well  worth  ob.servatiou  in  the 
local  and  provincial  notes  of  tho 
little  market  town ;  the  animated 
country  groups;  tho  fishermen;  tho 
unwonted  ai)paritiou  of  a  mail 
coach  ;  the  gay  i)iomenadings  of  tho 
visitors  and  local  ge'iitry.  Otherwise 
tho  place  is  dull.  The  main  occupa- 
tion of  the  inhabitants  is  to  let  lodg- 
ings, and  tho.se  who  don't  let  lodg- 
ings tliemsel  ves  turn  house  agents  for 
those  who  do.  The  charm  of  Ilfra- 
combe  lies  in  its  environs,  which  in 
some  respects  are  uni'iue.  Wo  will 
first  take  a  remoter  and  next  a  nearer 
view.  Looking  over  tho  northern 
waters  you  will  bo  able  to  di>cern 
the  line  of  the  south  coast  of  Wales. 
There  is  the  great  opi)Osite  rock  of 
the  Mumbles,  and  there  the  smoke 
that  belongs  to  the  town  of  Swansea. 
Eighteen  miles  olT  is  Lundy  Isle; 
and  if  you  like  bouting  and  do  not 
mind  the  heavy  groiindswell  of  these 
waters,  it  will  interest  you  to  explore 
ono  of  the  smallest,  most  secluded, 
and  most  inaccessible  of  our  islands. 
It  is  nearly  surrounded  by  high  and 
inaccessible  rocks,  and  in  rough 
weather  it  is  not  always  ))  issiblc  to 
effect  a  landing.  We  have  heard 
some  curious  stories  as  to  the  diffi- 
culty of  executing  legal  processes  out 
here.  It  was  strongly  fortified  in 
the  Stuart  times,  and  long  held  out 
for  King  Cliailes.  Spoitsnieii  go 
over  on  Sunday  early  in  the  season 
on  account  of  the  bnipu  and  wood- 


Ufracomhe, 


27 


cocks,  and  it  is  a  favoTirito  resort  of 
the  ganiiot.  Jn  tlie  breeding  season 
tbe  cliil's  arc  covered  with  peafowl, 
and  to  take  gulls  and  pluck  their 
feathers  is  a  regular  occujmtion  of 
the  summer.  The  island  is  bur- 
rowed with  ralibits,  and  tliere  is  a 
little  it-land  on  the  south  famous  for 
rats.  '  Ivat  Is'and '  has  the  old 
aboriginal  black  rat,  which  once  was 
the  prevailing  rat  in  this  country, 
before  the  Hanoverian  rats  came 
over  in  the  ship  which  brought 
King  George  from  Hanover  and 
conijuered  all  other  rats  save  such 
few  as  still  linger  out  here. 

A  curious  event  happened  to 
Lundy  in  tiie  French  wars  of  Wil- 
hani  III.,  which  properly  belongs  to 
English  history,  but  i'rom  the  insig- 
nificance of  the  locality  is  generally 
omitted.  It  will  be  interesting  to 
quote  the  story.  A  ship  of  war, 
under  Dutch  colours,  anchored  in 
the  roadstead,  and  sent  ashore  for 
some  milk,  pretending  that  the 
captain  was  sick.  Tlie  islanders 
supplied  the  niiik  for  several  days, 
■when  at  length  the  crew  informed 
them  that  their  captain  w^as  dead, 
and  asked  permission  to  bury  him 
in  consecrated  ground.  This  was 
immediately  granted,  and  the  in- 
habitants as.^isted  in  carrying  the 
coflfiu  to  the  grave.  It  appeared  to 
them  rather  htavy,  but  they  never 
for  a  moment  suspected  the  nature 
of  its  contents.  The  Frenchmen 
then  requested  the  islanders  to  leave 
the  church,  as  it  was  the  custom  of 
their  country  that  foreigners  should 
absent  themselves  during  a  part  of 
the  ceremony,  but  informed  them 
that  they  should  be  admitted  to  see 
the  body  interred.  They  were  not, 
however,  kept  long  in  suspense  ; 
the  doors  were  suddenly  flung  open, 
and  the  Frenchmen,  armed  from  the 
pretended  receptacle  of  the  dead, 
rushed  with  triumphant  shouts  upon 
the  a'stonished  inhabitants,  and  made 
them  juisoners.  Tlrey  then  quickly 
proceeded  to  desolate  the  island. 
They  hamstrung  the  horses  and 
bullocks,  threw  the  sheep  and  goats 
into  the  sea,  tossed  tho  guns  over 
the  cliffs,  and  slrip))cd  the  inhabi- 
tants even  of  their  clothes.  When 
satisfied  with  plunder  and  mischief, 
they  Ictt  the  poor  islanders  in  a  con- 


dition mo?!t  truly  disconsolate.  This 
incident  deserves  to  be  more  widely 
laiown  than  it  is  :  rarely  even  in  the 
annals  of  warfare  do  we  hear  oi 
such  sacrilege,  perfidy,  and  gra- 
tuitous cruelty. 

It  is  woith  while  yachting  over  to 
Lundy,  if  only  to  ga'n  acquaintance 
with  what  we  are  told  is  its  especial 
charm— its  perfect  purity  and  fresh- 
ness of  colour.  '  In  few  other  places 
does  one  see  such  delicate  purples 
and  creamy  white*,  such  pure  greens 
and  yellows.'  Yachting  off  Ilfra- 
conrbe  must  be  i>leasant  enough  for 
those  who  like  it:  there  is  also  a 
remarkable  number  of  steamers 
working  to,  fro,  and  across  the 
British  Channel.  I  have  just  heard 
at  the  table  d'hote  a  most  absurd 
story  of  a  yachtsman,  which,  though 
grotesque,  is  worth  while  mentioning 
as  veracious.  Some  man,  who  had 
been  out  on  a  Aaihting  cruise,  gave 
himself  the  libeities  of  a  tar  who 
had  come  on  shore,  and  having 
drunk  quite  as  mrrch  wine  at  dinner 
as  was  good  for  him,  retired  to 
some  room  within  ear-shot,  where 
he  audibly  continued  in  a  state  of 
uproarious  merriment  till  a  late 
hour.  I  forget  whether  he  was 
staying  at  an  inn  or  a  country  house, 
but,  anyhow,  he  was  greeted  next 
morning  by  a  pretty,  laughing-eyed 
girl  with  the  simple  but  astonishing 
speech,  'J  guess  yon  had  hot  coj)pers 
last  night?  As  1  do  not  know  that 
she  w^as  a  Devonshire  girl,  perhaps 
we  had  better  assume  that  she  was 
an  American.  The  effect  upon  the 
yachtsman  was  immense.  He  took 
a  deep  breath,  and  then  he  made  a 
deep  resolve.  He  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  was  bound  to  marry 
that  girl,  and  he  accordingly  married 
her  w'ithin  six  weeks.  She  has 
made  a  good  mother  to  a  lot  of 
children,  and  altogether  came  out 
of  it  much  better  from — in  fact,  from 
such  au  exceedingly  vapid  speech. 

Now,  in  speaking  of  the  Ufra- 
comhe localities,  which  really  make 
up  Ilfracombc,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  draw  the  line  somewhere,  and 
not  go  off  into  a  tempting  general 
disquisition  on  the  coast  of  North 
Devon.  I  take  the  places  within 
tho  easy  compass  of  a  day's  walk  or 
ride;   such  places  as  arc  included 


'# 


U/racombe. 


Tvitliin  a  npcfal  little  map  ami  plan 
of  tho  neiglihourliond,  pulilislieil  in 
the   town,   and    which   the    tourist 
should  pet.     Wo  will  first  take  tho 
westward  side.     If  you  arc  going  to 
or  from    Barnstaplo   there  are  two 
roads,  and  jf  yon  have  the  oiijior- 
tunity  jon  should  take  hoth  ;   l)ut  if 
jou  are  in  a  hurry  come  on  hy  tiie 
hotel   omnil>us;    but  if  you  are  at 
leisure,  take  tho  mail  coach,  which 
comes    to    lH'racoiul)e    l>y    way   of 
Braunton,  for  the  8ake  of  delivtVinp; 
the   baps ;    and   this    is   the  most 
picturesque  road   of  the   two,  anil 
you  sweep  through  a  wild,  lovely 
valley,  which  suits  very  well  with 
the  story  of  an  awful  murder  which 
was  coiumitte<i  hero  many  years  ago. 
From  Barnsta|)le,  if  it  is  permitted 
you  by  the  Fates,  do  the  remarkable 
bit  of  railway  that  will  lake  you  to 
Bideford,    drop   down   to   Clovelly, 
wind  round  ilartland,  and  do  tho 
Cornish  coast  to  Bosca.st!e  and  Tin- 
tagel.     But,  r<s',z  la,  as  the  French 
postilioas  say  ;    curb  your  aspiring 
notions,  my  literary  friend,  and  con- 
tine  yourself  within  the  comjjarativo 
limits    of    IllVacombe.      Then   take 
the  lane  south  of  the  church,  and 
go  out  to  the  valley  of  Jx;e,  Morthoe, 
Barricane  Cove,  and  AVoolIacombe 
Sands;   wo  will   call  it  five   miks 
and  a  half  or  si.K  miles.     ^lorthoo 
is  a  name  of  evil  omen.     Just  off 
the  Point  is   the   IMorte  or  J)(<tlh 
Stone,   where  year   by  year    some 
vessel  or  other  is  wrecked :   in  tho 
winter  of   1852   no  less  than   five 
ves.sels  were    lost    hero.      It    is  a 
Devonshire  legend  that  if  a  lot  of 
womin  could   be  brought  together 
who    have    their    husl)ands    utter 
slaves  to  their  wills,  they  and  they 
only  would  l>e  able  to  remove  tliis 
death-fraught   rock.      There    is    a 
famous  view  from  the  Warren,  at 
the  north  end  of  Morte  Bay.     Morte 
church  is  very  ancient,  part  of  it 
iK'longing  to  tiie  Early  Fnglishdate. 
Here  tied  Triui  y,  tho  murderer  of 
Thomas    11    Becket,    hi  Iden     in    a 
cavern,  and  ful  by  his  daughter  for 
a  fortnight.     lie  wa.s  banished  out 
hero,  and  tho  story  long  went  that 
on  stormy  nights  his  voice  migiit  U) 
heard   wailing   across  the    Woolla- 
coralto  fands.      Barricane  Cove  is 
deservedly  a  iJavourito   resort,  tho 


beach  being  almost  entirely  made 
up   of  shells;    although,  to'   check 
undue    expectation,   it    should    be 
added  that  the  shells  for  the  most 
part  have  l>cen  broken  by  the  force 
of   the    waves.       Here    Mr.   Go.sse 
enumerates  some  very  rare  speci- 
mens.    The  '  iK'autituI  oceanic  blue 
snail' — JiDif/iiiiii  roinntiiiiis  is  some- 
times   worked  up    alive    in    large 
quantities,  together  with  the  F7//«/a 
liiididsii,  on   which   the   ianthina  is 
sujiposed  to  feed  during  its  voyage. 
1  must  here  remark  that  it  is  not 
very  much  use  in  c(jming  to  Ilfra- 
combc  unless  you  have  some  little 
taste  for  natural  history.     Socially 
it  is  everything    here.      You    are 
hardly  fit  to  live  imless  you  know 
everything  about  anemones.   Nearly 
every  house,  I  sui)pose,  has  got  its 
aquarium.     You  are  at  any  moment 
liable   to  remarks  aV)out  zooj)hytes 
like    the    madrepore    and    p»)lype, 
wild   flowers  like  the  fen  lavender 
and  wild    balm,  seaweed   like  the 
luinr  and  por/>/ii/ra   hicininfu.     The 
poorest  people   are  learned    alx)ut 
seaweed.      They   gather    and   cook 
the  laver  and  the  other  thing,  al- 
though the  Soutli  Devon  people  will 
not  eat  the  laver  as  the  North  Devon 
people  do.     Many  people  like  it  very 
much  ;     her    gracious  ,  Majtsty    is 
accredited   with  a  sj)ei-ial  taste   for 
it;  and  though  it  does  not  look  very 
temi)ting    when    cooked,    and    the 
brilliant  green  colour  is  lost,  yet  it 
eats   very    well    with    condiments. 
Let  me  strongly  advise  my  friends 
to  bring  down  with  them  a  f^et  of 
natural  history  books  if  they  would 
fully  enjoy    this    marvellous   coast, 
and,  what  is  still  more  important, 
'  1)0  in  the  fashion.'     You  should  of 
course  procure  Air.  Gosse's  Devon- 
shire book,  for  it  was  at  llfracomt)e 
that   he  made   many  of  his    most 
striking  discoveries.     Another  book 
to  be  recominendi  d  is '  A  Naturalist's 
Bambles  on  the  Devonshire  Coast.' 
But  there  an;  a  certain  brother  and 
sister,   Charles   Kingslcy  and   Mrs. 
Chanter,   who    have    done  a  great 
deal  for  the  natural  history  of  this 
region.     Mrs.  Clianter  inscrii)es  iier 
iKiautifuI  little  work  '  lerny  Comi>e.s,' 
to   her    i)arent8,  the    llev.  Charle."} 
Kingsley   (late  rector    of   Chelsea) 
and    Mrs.  Kingsley,    '  as    a   small 


Ilfracomhe. 


29 


token  of  the  gratitncle  due  to  them 
fur  awakening  and  fostering  in  their 
childrcu  a  love  of  nature  and 
beauty.'  Her  little  work,  as  imli- 
catcd  by  the  title,  i.s  cliifcfly  devoted 
to  ferns,  but  has  soino  charming 
descriptions  of  scenery.  Mr.  Charles 
Kingsley's  '  Glaucas,'  as  far  as  lo- 
cality goes,  is  rather  concerned  witli 
Torbay  than  with  the  north  coast, 
but  his  book,  as  well  as  his  sister's, 
Mrs.  Chanter's  '  (whose  '  Over  the 
Clitfs '  is  a  good  seaside  novel),  are 
admirably  adapted  for  awakening 
an  initial  taste  in  these  matteis. 
Mr.  Chanter,  the  vicar  of  llfracoiube, 
has  a  name  held  in  deserved  respect 
and  repute  in  the  western  country. 
His  ancient  parish  church,  though 
on  high  ground,  and  inconveniently 
removed  from  the  town,  is  a  most 
picturesque  object  in  every  way,  and 
has  lately  been  restored,  though 
perhaps  not  so  perfectly  as  might 
be  wished. 

We  have  come  back  from  our 
eastward  rambles,  and  before  w^e 
start  for  the  west,  like  the  wise  men, 
we  will  rest  and  be  thankful  a  while 
in  our  quarters.  My  window  in  the 
hotel  overlooks  Wildersmouth,  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  yards,  the 
estuary  of  the  sparkling  little  brook 
the  AVilder.  At  low  water  it  is  a 
diminutive  valley  of  rocks,  and  at 
high  water  the  imperious  tide,  vio- 
lently chafing  against  them,  throws 
up  fountains  of  foam.  Close  by  is 
the  sea-walk  round  Copston  Hill, 
the  public  promenade,  which  is  the 
joy  and  delight  of  the  people  of 
"llford's  Combe.  It  is  a  marvellous 
piece  of  natural  masonry,  a  path 
escarjDed  in  the  rock,  which  form 
seats  sheltered  by  the  hill  behind 
you  with  the  waves  dashing  against 
the  rocks,  the  path  being  perfectly 
safe  though  apparently  i^erilous. 
It  is  a  most  clicerful  sight  to  see 
the  natives  and  visitors  flocking  to 
this  wonderful  walk,  a  never-foiling 
source  of  health  and  enjoyment. 
Then  you  make  your  way  down 
into  the  harbour,  a  recess  that  must 
originally  have  been  of  a  most  ro- 
mantic character,  and  is  protected 
by  its  natural  ramparts  of  rock. 
This  little  port  has  a  consequence 
of  its  own  entirely  independent  of 
the  caprices  of  tashion.    In  the  wars 


of  Edward  III.  it  sent  out  six  times 
more  ships  than  the  Mersey ;  tliat 
is  to  say,  Ilfracomhe  furnished  six 
ships  and  Liverpool  only  one ;  the 
relative  position  is  now  much  more 
tlian  inverted.  Thirty  years  ago,  a 
sailor  told  us  this  morning,  Ilfra- 
comhe was  a  great  place  for  fishing, 
but  now  the  fishing  has  altogether 
fallen  off;  Mr.  Bertram  would  pro- 
bably say  that  the  waters  had  been 
overfished.  A  number  of  pots  is  set 
for  crabs  and  lobsters,  but  not  much 
is  done  this  way.  Just  above  the 
harbour  is  Tantern  Hill,  and  the 
guardian  chapel  of  St.  Nicholas 
used  to  look  down  from  it  and  keep 
watch  and  ward  on  the  little  port, 
exhibiting  from  time  immemorial  a 
beacon  light  to  avert  the  dangers  of 
this  rock-bound  coast.  You  may 
still  trace  the  outlines  of  the  chapel; 
it  has  a  quaint  lighthouse,  and  is 
now  used  as  a  reading-room.  Now 
for  a  few  words  on  the  bathing, 
always  a  most  important  considera- 
tion in  a  watering-place.  A  most 
convenient  tunnel  pierces  enormous 
rocks  and  conducts  you  into  twin 
coves,  th.at  on  the  right  forming  the 
bathing-place  for  lailies.  This  is  a 
most  remarkable  spot,  fit  for  Diana 
and  her  nymphs.  The  background 
consists  of  stupendous  clifis,  and 
across  the  yellow  sands  is  an  almost 
circular  basin,  whei'e  art  has  cun- 
ningly helped  nature,  where  the 
water  never  fails,  but  permits  of 
bathing  at  the  ebb  of  tide.  Mrs. 
Trollope,  the  mother  of  the  king  of 
the  circulating  libraries,  says :  '  I  was 
wont,  though  no  sea -bather,  to  repair 
to  it  early  and  late  with  some  favourite 
volume  in  my  hand,  which  rarely, 
however,  siacceeded  for  ten  minutes 
together  in  withdrawing  my  eyes 
from  the  deep-green  sea,  with  all  its 
battery  of  rocks  surrounding  the 
delicious  basin  for  ever  ready  for 
the  bather's  use.'  The  green  to  tlie 
left  leads  to  the  bathing-place  fur 
the  unworthy  sex,  and  in  various 
other  quarters  they  will  also  find 
facilities.  The  people  of  Ilfracomhe 
think  that  all  their  arrangements 
would  be  perfect  if  they  could  only 
get  a  railway,  which  has  been  con- 
stantly before  their  eyes  and  baffling 
them  for  many  years  past;  but  I 
confess  I  shall  not  be  disappointed 


80 


Ufrncomhe. 


if  tliey  nre  cheated  of  tluir  liopcs  in 
pcrpL'tiiiiy. 

The  lllrrtronilimns  are  very  anx- 
ious  to  estiililisli   tlicir   town  as  a 
place  of  winttr  resort.     1  am  sure 
I  have  no  olij'cti  >ii.     I  am  not  sure, 
liowevor,  tliur  tiny  do  so  on  proper 
gniunds,  and  that  they  fully  under- 
stand  the    strenjjth    of  tlitir  owu 
p  isition.     The  ohmito  may  l)e  ad- 
mitted to  be  ilelif^htful.     It  is,  I  am 
told,  unusually  equ'iblo  in  its  cool 
summers    and   warm   winters.      It 
'combines,'  s:iys  Charles  Kirp:sley, 
*  the  soft  warmth  of  South  JJevon 
with  the   braciii,':;   freshness  of  the 
Welsh  mountains,  wherein   winter 
has  slipped  out  of  the  list  of  seasons.' 
More  than  anywhere  el.-o  yoii  may 
observe  at  Iltrac()ml)c  houses  ticl- 
lised    with    ver micas,    laurustiiia«, 
and  the  more  delicate  ro=;es.  '  During 
the  absence  of  high  winds,'  to  quote 
a  paper   put  forth   by  the    Town 
Improvement  Committee  of    Tlfra- 
combe,   'the    climate    is  doubtless 
eiiual,  and  in  some  respects  supe- 
rior, to  that  of  Torquay  in  cases  of 
pulmonary    diseases.'       Now  it   is 
curiou.'-ly  true  tiiat  the  winter  which 
is  just  over  has  been  more  favour- 
able at  Ilfracoiube  than  at  Torquiiy. 
They  have  had  an  astonishing  quan- 
tity  of  snow  and  storm  at  Tonpiay, 
and  very  little  at  Ilfracumbe.     But 
this  is  altogether  abnormal,  and  on 
the  whole  Torpiay  has  v,  very  dif- 
ferent and  a  mueli  milder  elimate. 
The  real  argument  for  llfraconibo 
is  that  its  climate  is  very  ditTerent 
from  Torquay,  and  that  tlie  dillerenco 
is  in  its  favour.     Instead  of  depre- 
ciating 'the  high  winds,'  Ilfracombo 
ou^ht  to  make  capital  out  of  them. 
Some   time   ago  1  travelled    up  to 
London  with  a  very  clever  physician 
who  had^  retired  from  pr.ietice,  and 
ho  gave   me   his  convietion  that  a 
bracing  climato  and  not  a  mild  cli- 
mate   is  the   proper  Fcene  for   an 
invalid.     Ho   instanceil  the  case  of 
6ome  one  who  had  gono  to  Russia 
for  the  chest.     I  met  a  rehitivo  onco, 
going  to  winter  in  the  bli  akest  and 
nortiiernmost  part  of  England,  and 
with  frightful  sjmptoms.     I  was  in 
the  greatest  alarm  on  his  account, 
and  implored  him  to  think  of  the 
south  of  Euro])e.     ile  liowever  per- 
fci.stcd  in  ilia  iuiiauo  design— and  re- 


covercl.  So  far  as  T  can  make  out, 
having  given  some  little  attention 
to  tiio  subjo'.t,  Tor([U;iy  gives  the 
most  rest  and  relief  in  a  hopeless 
ca.se;  but  'when  the  ]iulmonary 
affection  is  only  nppreheiidu  1  or 
inci|)ient,  the  m)re  braeing  climate 
of  Ilfraeombe  would  in  all  pro- 
bability bo  the  l)etler  for  an  invalid 
It  would  not  at  all  siu-|)rise  me 
therefore  if  IlfracDinlie  became  a 
winter  sanatorium,  <\nd  1  heard  in- 
cidentally in  the  course  (»f  last 
winter  that  several  medical  men 
were  recommending;  it  as  suoli.  It 
has  all  the  advantages  of  an  oceanic 
climate,  tlie  ozouu  ana  particles  of 
saline. 

But  wo  must  look  eastwards  after 
lunch.  I  have  just  asivcil  the  waiter 
what  ho  had  for  my  lunch,  and  Jio 
suggested  eold  .salt  beef.  Observing 
that  I  looked  rather  despondent,  . 
the  thoughtful  creature,  from  the 
unprompted  workings  of  his  own 
conscience,  has  just  sent  me  in  cohl 
duck,  lot)ster  salad,  and  new  pota- 
toes. Refreshed  with  this  light  re- 
past, and  some  capital  St.  Emilien, 
I  invite  my  readers  to  accompany 
mo  on  donkey  or  pony,  in  a  trap, 
or  only  in  imagination.  Just  a  mile 
from  the  town  is  Waterinouth, 
where  a  Gothic  castlo  is  screened  by 
rocks ;  a  vale  is  shut  in  by  much 
splendid  timber,  while  a  rivulet 
sparkles  throuj^h  the  grass  to  the 
wild  cavernous  cove,  where  it  fmds 
its  exit.  Close  by  is  Small  Mouth, 
with  its  two  caverns,  where  you 
get  a  pretty  view  of  the  little  bay  of 
Coml)o  Morten.  This  l)ay  is  .so  shut 
in  l)y  rocks  that  it  might  easily  he 
converted  into  a  harbour,  but  tho 
idea,  though  continually  entertained, 
has  never  taken  deiinito  sliape. 
These  romantic  spots  ought  also  to 
bo  looked  at  from  the  sea.  Wv.  will 
not  on  this  occasion  go  farther  than 
the  Hanging  Stone,  which  is  tho 
boundary  mark  of  St.  Abirtin's 
parish,  and  equally  si  of  our  pre- 
sent rambles.  It  is  so  called  '  from 
a  thief  who,  liaving  stolen  a  sheep, 
and  tied  it  about  his  neck  to  carry 
it  on  his  back,  rested  himself  for  a 
time  upon  this  rock,  until  tho  sheep, 
strugf^ling,  slid  over  tho  side  and 
strangled  tho  man.'  The  legend, 
however,  ia   not   peculiar    to  ttiia 


TJie  Death  of  Lysis.  31 

region.      In  all    very    romarkablo  masses  of  rock,  sullen  and  heavy ; 

scenery    you    Avill    find   a  •  DcviTs  presently     a     streamlet     sparkles 

Bridge,  a  Lover's  Tjonp,  or  a  Hang-  throiigli  the  tnrf  to  some  deep  rc- 

mau's  Stono;  the  legemls  belong  to  cess  of  sandy  beach.     N(;w  the  laud 

a  cycle  and  do  not  admit  of  mncti  breaks  into  i^ndulutinns  or  rises  into 

variation.     The  general  character  of  wooded    hills,    presently    changing 

the  llfracombu  coast  gis^es  you  an  into    valleys    or  shadowy  combes, 

incessant  variety  of  scene.     There  '  So  the  dark  coast  runs  whimsically 

is  no  long  succession  of  mural  pre-  eastwards,  passing  from  one  shape 

cipices,   altiiough    every  now   and  to  another  like  a  Proteus,  until  it 

then  jou  encounter  a  commanding  unites  with  the  massive  s-ea-front  of 

cliff.      The    ever-changeful  aspect  Ji^xmoor.'      Of    Exmoor    we    have 

arises   from  a  succession  of  eleva-  something  to  fay,  but  the  subject  is 

tions  and  depressions.    Here  a  rocky  so  important  that  wo  reserve  it  for 

headland  rises;  here  a  deeply-cleffc  a  separate  paper, 
ravine   subsides.      Then   you   get 


THE  DEATH  OF  LYSIS. 

'  Wcaltby,  beautiful,  ami  j'oung,  lie  wearied  of  life,  and  died.' 

I  WOULD  pass  away  from  out  these  stifling  regions 
Into  the  golden  galleries  of  the  gods ; — 
All  unencomi^assed  by  the  woes,  in  regions 
That  clothe  and  trammel  me  Avith  earthly  sods. 

I  look  my  last  up  to  the  purple  hill, 
And  see  the  vine-leaves  glisten  in  the  sun; 
Whispering  voices  seem  my  ears  to  till. 
And  the  world  is  growing  drear  and  dun. 

I  cannot  bear  these  hateful  flickering  shadows 
That  curl  into  my  hair,  and  on  my  cheek; 
Have  they  no  words  in  which  to  speak  their  message  ? 
Why  will  they  witch  me  with  their  wanton  freak  V 

I  cannot  bear  this  shifting  blinding  sunlight 
The  wild  uncurtained  west  throws  over  me ; 
I  long  to  dwell  in  the  calm  silent  twilight, 
The  solemn  temples  where  the  great  gods  be. 

My  life  has  burdened  me  with  many  pleasures ; 
They  haunt,  as  sorrow  now,  my  fleeting  peace: 
Shall  death  let  mo  prize  again  my  treasures? 
Shall  death  make  siclmess  of  the  heart  to  cease  ? 

A  strange  voice  from  the  night  is  near — I  feel  it 
Thrill  through  my  veins  and  quicken  my  slow  heart; 
Turn  my  dead  face  to  the  melodious  twilight, 
The  world  and  I  do  very  well  to  part. 


82 


MK.  FELIX  GOES  TROUT-FISHING. 


"  '717  neuen  Uforn  lockt  ein  neuer 
ij  Tap."  Wr.  Felix  lit'Kan  to  grow 
weary  of  liis  liorses,  and  liunporod 
for  a  new  amnscmont.  Ho  rel>elled, 
Eoniftimrs  with  savafre  emphasis, 
against  that  iiroress  of  idealization 
hy  whicli  Mrs.  Feh'x  would  trans- 
form him  into  a  royal  iiiiiiter  of  the 
stag:  and  hinted,  in  no  gentle  man- 
ner, that  slie  \\w\  better  Imrn  her 
f^nplish  lii«tory,  and  not  make  a 
frM)l  f)f  lierself.  Sho  saw  this  vaeil- 
lation  with  profound  grief.  Her 
highest  hojK'S  had  Inin  nalizcd  hy 
the  lirilliaiit  exjjloit  of  her  husband 
iu  being  in  at   the   taking   of  the 


deer;  although  it  seemed  to  her  very 
shameful  that  she  should  n(»t  liave 
been  allowed  to  hang  up  a  pair  of 
antlers  in  tlie  hall. 

'  There's  no  more  deer  to  run 
after/  lie  said,  with  ungrammatical 
force;  'and  what's  the  use  of  nag- 
ping  ?  I  tell  you  my  name  is  Samuel 
Felix,  and  not  William  IJufus;  and 
what's  more,  I'm  going  to  fry  trout- 
fi.shing,  as  a  far  more  sens-iblo  tiling 
than  galloping  over  muchly  fields 
after  a  lot  of  jinsty  dog«.' 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Felix  eamo  up 
to  town,  and  tliere  hiuncln  d  into 
boundless  extravagance  in  the  pur- 


Mr.  Felix  goes  Trout-FisJdng. 


33 


cliase  of  such  a  collection  of  rods, 
lines,  reels,  flics,  and  treatises  on 
the  art  of  fisliinp:,  as  purely  never 
before  threatened  the  instant  clear- 
ance of  all  English  rivers.  Nothing 
which  hnman  ingenuity,  or  tlio 
fishing-tackle  maker's  art  could  de- 
vise, was  wanting  in  my  friend's 
superb  list  of  i^reparations ;  and, 
burdened  by  this  armful  of  miscel- 
laneous implements,  he  made  his 
way  back  again  into  Kent. 

For  a  week  I  heard  nothing  of 
him.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I 
found  him,  one  warm  afternoon, 
busily  engaged  in  throwing  a  fly- 
line  across  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
Beeches. 

'Everybody  thinks  he  can  throw 
a  fly  until  he  tries,'  said  he.  '  Now, 
do  you  see  that  bit  of  paper  lying 
there?' 

He  swept  the  rod  forward  from 
his  left  shoulder,  and  the  point  of 
the  line  dropjied  within  two  inclies 
of  the  mark.  I  was  surprised  at  his 
proficiency. 

'  It  has  taken  me  a  week's  constant 
practice  to  do  that,'  said  he,  proudly  ; 
*  and  to-morrow,  as  you  know,  I'm 
going  to  put  my  skill  to  the  test.' 

'But  what  have  you  got  at  the 
end  of  the  line?'  I  asked,  noticing 
one  or  two  small  black  specks. 

'  Oh,'  he  said,  '  these  are  two  or 
three  split  shot,  just  to  steady  the 
line  as  it  falls,  you  know.  I  wasn't 
told  to  do  so  by  any  book  ;  but 
you've  no  idea  how  it  guides  the  line 
again.st  the  wind  and  weather,  and 
enables  you  to  drop  the  fly  precisely 
where  you  want.' 

'  It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,'  I 
said  to  him,  'for  finhing  on  the 
lawn  ;  and  doubtless  to-morrow  the 
trout  will  be  grateful  to  you  for 
giving  them  such  plain  notice  of  the 
arrival  of  an  artificial  fly.' 

'  You'll  see,'  he  replied,  confi- 
dently, '  how  gently  I  shall  drop 
lead  and  hook  and  all  over  their 
noses.' 

In-doors,  Mvs.  Felix  was  in  a  mood 
of  mingled  melancholy  and  sulks. 
As  we  entered,  she  asked  her  hus- 
band, with  some  asperity,  when  he 
was  going  to  take  his  tiash  off  the 
table,  to  allow  tea  to  be  brought  in. 
The  '  trash '  turned  out  to  be  Mr. 
Felix's  splendid  collection  of  flies, 

VOL.  XII. — NO.  LXVII. 


which,  for  purposes  of  comparison, 
he  had  taken  out  of  his  book,  and 
arranged  side  by  side  on  large  sheets 
of  white  paper. 

'There!'  said  he;  'there  is  only 
one  maker  in  Great  Britain  who 
can  produce  a  Durham  lianger  like 
that.  \Vhat  do  you  think  of  my 
Spcy  Dog? — do  you  think  there's  a 
sahnon  in  the  world  could  resist 
tliat  teal  hackle  at  the  shoulder,  and 
that  glittering  line  of  tinsel  ?  Now 
I'll  wager  you  haven't  in  your  book 
an  O'Donoghue  to  be  compared 
with  this  one — let  us  see.' 

I  informed  Mr.  Felix  that,  in  pre- 
paring to  fish  in  Kent,  I  did  not 
provide  myself  with  flies  for  all  the 
rivers  in  Europe  ;  a  piece  of  intel- 
ligence which  seemed  rather  to 
annoy  him. 

'  How  can  you  call  yourself  a 
fisher  unless  you  are  ready  to  fish 
any  water  ?'  said  he  :  '  if  I  go  to  the 
Spey,  or  the  Usk,  or  the  Dee,  or  the 
Erne,  I  am  prepared  at  all  points. 
Besides,  I  consider  that,  as  mere 
triumphs  of  art,  these  flies  are  worth 
having.  Look  at  them ! — look  at  the 
Green  Di'ake! — was  there  ever  any- 
thing so  like  nature  ?  Look  at  this 
Parson,  and  this  March  brown,  and 
this  Soldier  Palmer!' 

Mr.  Felix  lifted  a  solitary  fly,  and 
held  it  out  with  a  slight  bashfulness 
appearing  on  his  face. 

'  This  is  a  fly,'  he  said,  *  which  I 
think  ought  to  kill.  I  propose  to 
call  it  Count  Bismark.  Black  silk 
body,  you  see,  claret  hackle,  and 
silver  thread  :  don't  you  think  it  is 
adapted  for  those  lurid  afternoons 
when  everything  gets  a  sultry,  cop- 
pery tinge?  Perhaps  ^old  thread 
would  be  better;  but  the  first  time 
I  go  trout-fishing  on  a  lake,  I  mean 
to  try  my  Bismark,  and  I  have  every 
hope  of  its  success.' 

'  It's  more  than  I  have  of  yours, 
Mr.  Felix,'  said  my  friend's  wife, 
scornfully;  'there,  you've  had  the 
whole  house  packed  with  your  rods 
and  flies  for  a  week,  and  you  haven't 
brought  home  a  minnow.  Why,  the 
children  can  do  better.  Jack  brought 
us  a  fine  trout  last  night  which  he 
caught  with  a  bit  of  stick,  and  string, 
and  a  worm.' 

'If  I  find  any  of  the  children 
fishing  down  in  that  stream,  Mrs. 


34 


Mr.  Felix  goes  Trout-Ftahing. 


Felix,'  said  her  husbantl,  firmly,  '  I 
will  j-'ivc  tlicin  ns  poo  I  a  (lucking  as 
ever  they  pot  in  tiieir  life.' 

Mrs.  Felix  smileil  ilisdainfully. 
She  was  not  terrified  hy  her  hus- 
band's flourish  of  rhetoric. 

I  think  it  was  this  taunt  which 
made  Mr.  Felix  order,  in  nil  her  a 
jiereniptory  way,  that  tea  should  bo 
])o.stp()netl  for  an  liour,  to  admit  of 
his  trying  an  experiment  on  the 
trout  inLabitinp  a  mill-head  some 
five  niinutts"  walk  from  the  JJeechea. 
jMv  friend,  tlierefore,  disappeared, 
and  in  a  few  moments  returned  in  a 
full  suit  of  fishing  costume.  He  was 
resplendent.  lie  peemed  to  bristle 
all  over  with  hooks  and  other  im- 
plements of  piscatorial  warfare.  His 
white,  waterproof  lishing-stockings 
were  secured  at  the  bottom  by  a 
pair  of  thick  scarlet  socks,  which 
again  rose  from  a  pair  of  large  and 
complicated  boots.  Spare  lengths 
of  gut  curled  round  his  beaver  hat 
in  innumerable  rings.  In  one  hand 
he  held  a  handsome  rod,  in  the  other 
a  shiny  landing-ntt:  from  top  to 
toe  he  was  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made. 

To  give  him  a  fair  chance,  I  re- 
solved to  leave  him  all  the  water  to 
himself ;  and  thereupon  we  departed 
for  the  mill-head.  H  was  a  beau- 
tiful evening  in  the  beginning  of 
June;  the  air  was  moist  and  warm, 
some  rain  having  fallen  half  an  hour 
l)cforo  we  .set  out ;  and  a  slight  wind 
inst  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  great 
jioud  which  Mr.  Felix  projioseil  to 
tish.  Nervously,  ]K'rhaps,  but  still 
with  .some  contideuce,  he  aj)iiroached 
the  margin  of  the  water  at  the  j)oint 
furthest  from  the  mill,  where  thero 
was  a  gentle  current  coming  from 
underneath  a  small  bridge. 

At  the  opi)osite  side,  a  few  inches 
from  a  low  grassy  bank,  and  under 
the  sliadow  of  some  biishes,  lay  a 
good-sized  trout,  sleei)ily  motion- 
liss,  not  deigmng  even  to  look  at 
ttie  flies  dancing  above  him.  Mr. 
Felix  grasped  my  arm  convulsively. 

'Don't  stir!  Can  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  him  over  yonder  ?— you'll 
Bco  how  I  shall  drop  a  fly  over 
him!' 

\Vith  one  or  two  preparatory 
ca-sts  to  get  the  line  out,  Mr.  Fdix 
at  length  succeeded  in  fullilliug  his 


])romiso.  As  was  to  Ix)  expected, 
tlio  *  flop '  of  his  cut  shot  on  tho 
water  startled  the  trout,  which  with 
a  quick  shoot  vanished  from  eight, 
leaving  only  a  long  wave  in  its 
wake.  It  was  some  time  before  Mr. 
Felix  could  realize  tho  fact  of  his 
having  been  so  bitterly  disappointed. 
^Vhen  ho  did,  ho  ma<lo  a  few  un- 
called-for remarks  relating  to  no- 
thing in  particular. 

'  1  sii])po.so  I  must  take  the  shot 
olT,  after  all,'  said  he,  di.scon.solately ; 
'  but  I  don't  think  there  will  be 
mncli  dilliculty  in  throwing  a  fly  on 
a  night  hke  this.' 

^Vi^h  a  clear  line,  he  now  pro- 
ceeded to  try  a  few  casts.  Tho  first 
throw  brought  all  the  line  curling 
down  ui)on  the  water,  some  half- 
dozen  yards  in  front  of  him.  Amaze- 
ment seized  him ;  and  then  I  saw 
him  clench  his  teeth.  Up  went  tho 
rod ;  back  went  the  long,  fine  streak, 
and  then,  with  a  splendid  swoop, 
ho  threw  his  right  hand  forward. 
There  was  a  sharp  crack  above  his 
liead,  as  if  Felix  was  urging  on  a 
team  of  coach-horses  ;  and  the  next 
moment  tho  lithe  gut,  in  a  rather 
uncertain  manner,  alit  ui)on  the 
surface  not  an  inch  farther  out. 

'  You  needn't  tlinnv  again,  in  the 
meantime,'  I  remarked  to  hinj. 

'Why?'  he  ai^ked,  fiercely;  for  a 
lino  trout  had  risen  opposite  us,  in 
the  middle  of  the  water. 

'Jjecauso  the  crack  nipped  tho  fly 
ofT.' 

I  thought  tears  of  vexation  would 
have  come  into  the  eyes  of  the 
gentle  angler,  so  downcast  did  ho 
look,  so  thunderstnick,  so  annoyed. 
Mechanically  ho  took  out  his  splen- 
did a.s.sortmentof  impo.ssible  insects, 
and  selected  a  fly  which  would 
certainly  have  pro(hiced  instant  ver- 
tigo in  any  trout  coming  near  it 

'  Tho  evening  is  rather  dull,'  said 
he,  'and  they  want  colour  to  attract 
them.  lint  what's  tiie  u.so  of  my 
throwing  and  throwing,  if  this 
wretched  gut  won't  go  out?  I  tell 
you  there's  something  wrong.  I've 
seen  people  fishing  in  this  very  mill- 
head  who  did  not  fake  half  tho  care 
I  do,  and  their  line,  becau.se  it  was 
a  good  line,  fell  most  beautifully 
and  lightly,  the  fly  drop])ing  on  the 
water  like  tho  wing  of  a  gnat,  and 


Mr.  Felix  goes  Trout-Fishing. 


35 


not  the  least  ripi^lo  to  be  seen.  I'll 
tell  you  \vli;it  ill  do:  I'll  write  to 

the  papers  aiul  say  that and 

Sons  are  no  better  than  a  lot  of 
impostors,  ami  tliat  their  rods  and 
lines  are  Udt  lit  to  put  before  swine.' 

So  sayintij,  ilr.  Felix  proceeded 
once  more  to  lash  the  water,  the  line 
almost  invariably  curling  itself  into 
rings  as  it  fell  about  a  rod's  length 
from  thi'  l)auk:.  In  every  position  he 
stood ;  every  sweep  of  the  arm  ho 
tried ;  but  "his  attempts  were  un- 
availing :  while,  to  add  to  the  misery 
of  tlie  situation,  the  trout  were 
rising  everywhere  around  bim. 

'The  wind  is  somehow  in  the 
way,'  said  he,  at  length,  with  a  great 
effort  to  conceal  his  anger ;  *  let  us 
try  down  by  the  mill  there.' 

Passing  over  a  sluice-gate,  we 
found  ourselves  in  front  of  a  new 
sphere  of  action;  and  Mr.  Felix  was 
about  to  recommence  his  painful 
labours,  when  an  unlucky  accident 
befell  him.  Concealed  beneath  a 
group  of  willows  hard  by,  a  swan, 
as  we  afterwards  learned,  was  hatch- 
ing; and  no  sooner  liad  we  appeared 
in  the  neighbourhood,  than  the  male 
swan — a  remarkably  large,  hand- 
some bird — took  our  approach  to 
mean  an  attack  upon  his  prospec- 
tive progeny.  Dashing  through  the 
water  towards  Mr.  Felix,  who  was 
nearest  him,  he  struggled  up  and  on 
the  bank,  and  made  a  furious  charge 
upon  my  friend,  who,  fortunately 
for  himself,  involuntarily  retreated. 
In  the  first  paroxysm  of  his  terror, 
however,  he  had  not  noticed  that 
immediately  behind  him  was  a  deep 
ditch,  filled  with  green,  stagnant 
water,  the  leakings  from  the  mill- 
head.  At  the  first  blow  aimed  at 
his  leg  by  the  wing  of  the  swan, 
Mr.  Felix  jumped  back,  and,  there- 
fore, disappeared  suddenly  from  the 
light  of  day,  leaving  the  swan 
master  of  the  situation.  As  the 
unhappy  sportsman  crept  up  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  ditch,  a  mass 
of  mud  and  tangled  weeds,  his  plight 
was  surely  sad  enough  ;  but  to  add  to 
his  horror,  he  found  that  the  mishap 
had  included  the  breaking  of  his 
best  trout- rod. 

'  Can  you  see  a  boy  about  ?'  he 
nsked  of  me,  with  a  strange  look, 
when  he  had  wiped  his  hps.  'I'll 


give  him  a  sovereign  to  run  up  to 
my  house.' 

'What  for?' 

'  For  my  revolver.' 

'Do  }ou  mean  to  shoot  that 
swan  ?' 

'  I  do.' 

'  You'll  miss  it,  and  kill  somebody 
about  the  mill,  if  you  try.' 

Eventually  Mr.  Felix  was  per- 
suaded to  remove  as  much  of  the 
mud  from  his  clothes  as  was  pos- 
sible, and  to  wend  his  disconsolate 
way  homeward.  I  do  not  mean  to 
lift  the  veil  of  domestic  i^rivacy, 
and  say  anything  of  the  tarcasms 
which  my  poor  hero  bore,  during 
the  evening,  with  more  than  his 
accustomed  equanimity. 

At  an  early  hoar  next  morning, 
the  wagonette  was  at  the  door, 
and  Mr.  Felix,  once  again  radiant 
with  hope,  ready  to  jump  in.  An 
enormous  hamper  was  safely  stowed 
away  ;  and  when  the  remaining  room 
was  pretty  well  occupied  by  spare 
rods,  landing-nets,  and  what  not, 
there  arrived,  to  complete  the  party, 
a  Mr.  Mearns,  an  aged  Waltonian 
of  short  stature,  silvery  hair,  and 
thin,  nervous,  brown  fingers,  which 
had  many  a  time  lured  a  four- 
pounder  to  his  doom. 

'Hasn't  Lord  Switchem  some 
rayther  gude  fishing  about  here'?' 
he  asked,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
little  incident  which  had  broken  the 
intimacy  between  his  lordship  and 
Mr.  Felix. 

'  Nothing  to  speak  of,'  said  Felix, 
contemptuously ;  '  besides,  he's  a 
coarse,  ungentlemanly  man,  fit  only 
for  hanging  abovit  stahles,  and  talk- 
ing about  dogs  and  horses.  "When 
I  made  it  all  right  with  Sir  Harry 
about  our  going  to-day,  nothing 
could  exceed  his  courtesy :  and  Sir 
Harry  has  something  like  fishing, 
as  you'll  see.' 

A  drive  of  half  an  hour  or  so 
brought  us  to  the  outskirts  of  Sir 
Harry's  grounds;  and  the  wa- 
gonette having  been  left  at  the 
nearest  inn,  we  soon  found  our  way 
to  the  river.  The  water  was  in 
IDrime  condition,  as  it  came  circling 
and  flowmg  down  through  the  low 
rich  meadows,  which  were  yellow 
with  buttercups;  and  already  in 
the  deep  pools,  whither  the  rush 

D  2 


3G 


Mr.  /'r}i.r  goes  TruHt-Fi<liing. 


of  the  stream  sent  ninUitndinoiis 
(Irownod  flies,  tiiere  could  be  seen 
the  quick  'Hop 'of  tlic  risinj^  trour, 
followed  l>y  tlowly  wiudiiip  circles 
on  tlie  duil  surface.  Our  tisliiuH'- 
ground  extended  from  tiiese  mea- 
dows, where  tlie  course  of  the  stream 
was  marked  by  a  tVw  jiolled  willows, 
or  a  line  of  low  alders,  to  the  lawn 
in  front  of  Sir  Harry's  house,  which 
was  ]ierhaps  two  miles  off.  Here, 
therefore,  was  jilenty  of  scope  for 
Mr.  Felix's  trial  of  skill.  The  morn- 
inp,  besides,  was  cloudy,  with  here 
and  there  a  ,«;haft  of  sunliirlit  break- 
ing through:  the  air  was  warm, 
the  stream  was  not  very  clear, 
there  was  no  wind  but  .such  as 
simply  to  take  the  mirror  olT  the 
surface  of  the  water;  and  wliat 
more  coiild  the  piscatorial  student 
want? 

I  observed,  however,  that  ]\Ir. 
Felix,  while  preparing  for  his  first 
effort,  kejit  away  from  his  Scotch 
friend,  and  threw  his  fly  in  a  furtive 
manner  upon  a  pool  where  no  one 
could  see  how  it  dropped. 

'  Maister  Felix,'  cried  the  latter, 
'  Avhat  sort  o'  ftee  will  ye  pit  on?' 

Tm  trying  the  Red  Palmer/  he 
replied  with  a  critical  glance  up 
and  down  the  river. 

'  Losh  me  I"  .said  Mr.  !Mearns,'tho 
lied  Tawmer  on  a  morning  like 
this?  Dinna  ye  see  the  May-flee 
comin'  down  by  the  dizzenV 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered 
when  the  old  man,  with  a  quick 
motion  of  the  wrist,  struck  sliarply 
and  firmly,  and  a  tine  trout  leapt 
clean  out  of  the  water.  A  little  run 
np  .stream,  with  the  line  gripping 
liim  stiffly,  soon  exhaustc<l  his  ol)- 
stinacy,  and  pre.'-ently  he  was  being 
quietly  drawn  towards  the  bank. 
Mr.  Felix's  man  came  running  for- 
ward with  the  landing-net. 

'Now,  my  man,  be  carefu'.  Dinna 
ye  break  my  line,  or  Dl  pit  ye  in 
the  water  after  the  fish.' 

But  no  such  a'^cident  occurred; 
and  Mr.  Felix,  not  very  joyfully, 
])erhaps,  came  up  to  look  at  the 
first  capture,  which  was  a  good 
trout  of  about  two  |M)Mnds  wcigtit. 

'  You  took  thnt  with  the  >biy-fiy, 
did  y(m?'saiil  lie  lotumiiig  Xo  his 
o-^n  pool,  and  taking  out  his  ixjckct- 
lH»ok. 


But  alas  for  the  vanity  of  human 
hopes!  Tlio  May-flies  were  coming 
down  in  'dizzms '— jiovering  upon 
the  water  in  the  most  tempting 
manner  ;  but  the  great,  sleepy, 
grey  monsters  und(!rneath  would 
not  look  at  them.  Wlun  they  alv 
solutcly  alioweil  the  natural  flics  to 
glide  over  their  nose,  how  was  it 
possible  to  force  upon  them  an 
artificial  one?  So  the  old  Scotch- 
man set  to  work  to  try  a  series  of 
experiments,  and  the  longer  he  tried 
ttie  more  a-tonished  did  he  bee  ane. 
They  would  not  look  at  his  flies,  let 
alone  rise  to  them  ;  ami  in  vain  we 
both  whipped  and  lashed  away  at 
the  water.  All  the  time,  likewi-c, 
that  these  ratiicr  mourn lul  efforts 
were  being  made,  we  could  hear  the 
muttered  anathemas  of  ^Iv.  Felix, 
as  he  curled  liis  line  down  upon  the 
water,  or  hooked  a  weed,  or  hung  up 
his  fly  upon  a  willow.  At  times  wo 
could  see  him  on  his  knees,  stretch- 
ing his  hand  over  the  water  to  extri- 
cate the  hook ;  at  another  he  was 
half-way  up  a  tree,  breaking  branches 
and  tugging  at  the  elu.'-ive  gut. 
Perspiration  was  streaming  over  his 
face;  but  as  yet  the  fish-bag  held 
onlv  one  captive. 

And  now  the  sun  came  out  in  its 
full  strength,  until  the  long  green 
meadows  and  the  great  chestnuts  in 
Sir  Harry's  park  .seemed  to  quiver 
in  the  lambent  heat.  We  were 
forced  to  leave  this  jmrt  of  the 
stream  and  seek  another  portion, 
where  the  overhanging  trees  on  the 
southern  side  sheltered  the  water 
from  ithe  fierce  glare.  Here,  how- 
ever, we  had  no  better  luck.  The 
trout  were  plentiful,  and  rose  tole- 
rably well ;  but  no  fly  which  we 
could  throw  them  would  they  look 
at.  Deep  despair  was  !«  ginning  to 
fall  upon  the  party,  when  it  was 
proposed  to  relieve  the  wretched 
tedium  of  the  day  by  taking 
luncheon.  With  a  sense  of  glad 
relief  which  he  could  not  conceal, 
Mr.  Felix  laid  a«ide  his  rod,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  open  the  great  hamper 
which  his  man,  a.^sistcd  by  a  boy, 
had  l>rought  up  into  the  meadow. 
The  champuf-'iie  «as  put  into  a  creek 
of  tlie  river,  the  white  cloth  wa.s 
laid  fni  the  wanu,  dry  {.-rass,  knives, 
forks,   jilates,  and   what  not   were 


Mr.  Felix  goes  Trout-Fishing. 


37 


forthcoming,  and  soon  tlio  air  was 
redolent  of  mint  sauce,  and  lamb, 
and  tongue,  and  crisp,  cool  lettuce. 
Mr.  Felix's  spirits  revived.  He 
talked  of  the  delights  of  angling ; 
be  jocularly  pointed  out  to  Mr. 
Mearns  that  he  was  only  one  ahead ; 
he  Towed  that,  fortified  by  this 
luncheon,  we  should  return  and  do 
wonders. 

The  old  Scotchman,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  restrained  and  silent.  A 
whole  collection  of  artificial  flies  was 
evidently  whirling  about  in  his  brain. 
Mentally  he  was  arguing  strenu- 
ously with  these  incomprehensible 
and  abominable  trout. 

At  this  moment  Sir  Harry's  keeper 
came  up,  and  was  persuaded,  without 
much  persuasion,  to  take  a  plateful 
ot  cold  lamb  and  salad.  He  like- 
wise had  some  other  less  material 
dainties,  all  of  which  he  consumed 
some  little  distance  apart,  occasion- 
ally returning  to  us  to  speak  of  the 
vater  and  of  the  fish.  Finally,  he 
had  some  champagne  out  of  a  silver 
mug,  and  this  proved  to  be  the  key 
to  unlock  the  secret  chambers  of  his 
heart.  Cold  lamb  and  pastry  he 
had  withstood ;  but  champagne  in 
a  silver  mug  overcame  him.  He 
came  over  for  the  last  time,  and  told 
us  that  Sir  Harry  had  recently  tried 
almost  every  fly — even  the  May-fly 
— without  getting  a  rise ;  but  so 
soon  as  he  showed  the  alder- fly  the 
trout  rose,  and  were  slaughtered  in 
hosts. 

Mearns  jumped  to  his  feet,  and 
was  quickly  out  of  sight. 

'  I  think  I  have  got  some  alder- 
flies,'  said  Mr.  Felix ;  '  but  I  don't 
know  which  they  are.  I  shall  label 
my  book  as  soon  as  I  get  home.' 

Alder- flies  were  soon  upon  every 
rod ;  and  before  half  an  hour  was 
over  eight  good  fish  had  been  landed. 
The  ease  with  which  the  trout  took 
the  bait  maddened  Mr.  Felix,  who 
had  not  yet  caught  one,  his  chief 
performances  having  been  those 
excursions  np  trees  which  I  pre- 
viously mentioned.  The  stream  was 
in  most  parts  so  narrow  tliat  there 
was  no  difficulty  about  his  dropping 
the  fly  on  the  proper  place;  but 
unfortunately  he  invariably  dropped 
on  the  same  place  two  or  three 
yards  of  curling  line,  which  either 


made  the  trout  shoot  out  of  sight, 
or  caused  him  to  lie  still  with  con- 
temptuous indifference. 

'Its  a  gran'  water  to  fish,'  said 
the  old  Scotchman;  'I  never  saw 
the  like  o't.  But  what's  wrang  wi' 
ye,  Maister  Felix?  Ye  seem  unco 
doon-speerited.' 

'  It's  all  tin's  confounded  rod !' 
said  Felix,  grinding  bis  teeth ;  '  a 
man  might  have  the  strength  of 
Samson  and  not  be  able  to  throw  a 
yard  of  line  with  it.  All  it  can  do 
is  to  pin  the  fly  upon  alder  branches.' 

'Dear  me!'  said  Mearns,  com- 
passionately ;  '  and  ye  liae  na  brocht 
a  single  trout  to  land.  Here,  tak' 
my  rod,  and  I'll  play  the  pairt  o' 
Samson  for  a  while.' 

So  the  old  man  took  Mr.  Felix's 
rod,  and  deftly,  with  those  long, 
thin  fingers  of  his,  dropped  the  fly 
over  the  head  of  one  of  the  trout 
that  lay  beneath  the  opposite  bank. 
There  was  a  slight  movement  in  tlie 
water,  the  fly  was  sucked  in,  and 
then  the  line  grew  suddenly  tight 
as  the  gleaming  side  of  the  fish  cut 
through  the  quiet  stream. 

'It's  a  wee  bit  thing,  but  better 
than  nane,'  was  the  remark,  as 
another  pound  and  a  half  was  added 
to  the  general  stock. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Felix  uttered  a  loud 
cry  ;  and  turning,  we  saw  him,  with 
an  ashen  pallor  of  face,  tugging  at 
the  line,  and  attempting  to  lift  out 
of  the  water  afish  which  had  at  length 
been  enticed  into  taking  his  fly. 

'Losh  bless  me,  man!'  cried  the 
old  Scotchman  ;  '  ye'll  break  my  rod 
to  bits  I     Diuna  pu'  like  that !' 

'  What  am  I  to  do,  then  ?'  cried 
Felix,  in  the  greatest  possible  ex- 
citement;  'he's  a  mcmsier  1  He'll 
get  off !  He's  a  dozen  pound  weight ! 
I  believe  he's  a  salmon!' 

The  next  uncons-cious  prompting 
of  his  intense  desire  to  secure  this 
leviathan  was  to  let  the  reel  run, 
lest  the  line  should  be  broken  and 
he  escape.  The  consequence  may 
be  imagined.  The  efforts  of  the  fish 
ceased,  and  Mr.  Felix  found  it  im- 
possible by  any  amount  of  pulling 
to  dislodge  him  from  his  retreat  in 
the  bed  of  the  river.  Slowly  my 
friend  proceeded  u})  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  winding  in  the  line  as  he 
went,  until  it  was  clearly  demon- 


38 


Mr.  Felix  goes  Trout-Fishing. 


strafed  that  Jlr.  Felix's  captive  had 
taken  refuge  in  a  bod  of  procn  weed 
Imlf  way  across.  Wliiit  was  to  Ih) 
done  ?  The  fisli  would  not  Rtir. 
Stones  coultl  never  reach  him.  Then 
]\Ir.  Felix,  nioveil  liy  the  sarcasms  of 
his  wife,  wore  no  lontrcr  his  water- 
proofs of  the  day  before;  he  had 
Ix-en  tauntiil  into  dressing  himself 
like  a  human  lieiu?. 

'  I'm  not  going  to  lose  such  a  tish 
fi>r  a  pair  of  wet  feet,'  said  ho,  va- 
liantly, as  he  jumped  into  the  river. 

There,  however,  progress  was  no 
easy  matter;  for  the  current  was 
strong,  tlie  water  consideral^ly  more 
than  knee-dtH')i,  and  the  bed  of  the 
stream  niatteil  with  the-^e  tangled 
Weeds.  Carefully  ^Ir.  Felix  took 
the  line  in  his  hand,  and  l)egan  to 
trace  tiie  fish  to  his  lair.  He  kicked 
away  the  weeds  as  he  went  farther 
out;  and  yet  there  were  no  signs  of 
the  dislodgment  of  the  line.  Kick- 
ing and  tugging  in  equal  propor- 
tions, he  had  at  length  reached  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  when  ho 
uttered  a  sliglit  cry :  there  was  a 
tUi-sh  of  something  cutting  through 
the  water;  either  exoitenicnt  or  a 
dusire  to  sitize  the  tish  caused  him 
to  stumble  forward,  and  then  our 
hero  went  down,  face  first,  into  the 
stream,  while  the  l>roken  line  floated 
lightly  back  to  the  ro<l,  which  Mr. 
]\iearns  held  in  his  hand.  Snorting 
like  a  young  whale,  Mr.  Felix  strug- 
gled to  his  feet  again.  He  glared 
wildly  around:  had  he  cauglit  his 
man  laughing,  instant  dismis.eal 
would  have  rewarded  his  presump- 
tion. 

'  As  it  is,'  said  he,  boldly,  as  ho 
came  drijijiing  to  the  side, '  1  h(X)ked 
the  biggest  tish  of  the  day.' 

'  The  (lay's  no'  oweryet,'  said  Mr. 
^barns,  (juietly,  watching  with  his 
keen  (  ye  for  the  first  rise  :  then,  as 
he  saw  Mr.  Felix  w.as  al)f)Ut  to 
depart,  he  adde<l,  '  Ye'ro  no' ganging 
back?  Hoots,  man!  in  the  sun  out 
there  ye'll  1h>  as  dry  as  a  red  lierrin' 
in  twenty  miuutctir 


'  I  have  no  ambition  to  lie  as  dry 
as  a  red  herring,'  replied  Mr.  Felix, 
with  a  sneer;  'and  I'm  not  going 
to  catch  a  cold  for  the  biggest 
basket  of  trout  that  ever  was  lilletl. 
But  I  shall  take  my  rod  and  landing- 
net  with  me;  and  perhaps  when 
you  find  mo  at  the  inn  on  your 
return  I  may  have  one  or  two  ti.'-h 
to  add  to  your  store.' 

So  saying  ho  dejiarttd— a  mourn- 
ful spectacle.  He  had  not.  however, 
passed  out  of  si^ht  when  I  saw 
liim  crouching  down  by  the  side  of 
the  river,  apparently  going  through 
a  singular  performance  with  his 
laudiim-net.  ^Vllen  I  again  looked 
he  was  gone;  and  the  circumstance 
had  ))assed  from  my  mind  when  we 
found  him,  in  the  evening,  seated 
in  the  parlour  of  the  inn,  comfort- 
ably smoking  and  reading  the  news- 
papers. 

'  Did  yon  catch  anything  as  you 
returned?'  I  askeil. 

'  Look  in  the  landing-net,'  said  he, 
proudly;  '  it's  in  the  corner.' 

And  there,  sure  enough,  was  a 
fine  trout,  carefully  wrap]ic<l  up  in 
sedge-leaves.  IMr.  Mearus  carefully 
scanned  it. 

'What  flee  did  ye  catch  it  wi'? 
he  asked. 

'Tho  alder-fly,  of  course,'  replied 
Felix. 

'  That's  maist  exiraordinar'?'  said 
tho  old  Scot<'hnian. 

'  Why  ?' demanded  Felix,  not  with- 
out a  certain  fierceness  in  his  tone. 

'  Jl(riiiiiir  flic  traiifs  h/iii'  .'' 

'And  can't  a  blind  trout  swallow 
a  fly?'  asked  i\Ir.  Felix,  grown  sud- 
denly angry,  'or  how  in  all  the 
earth  could  it  remain  alive?' 

'  I  <liima  ken,'  r<i)'i<  d  the  Scotch- 
man, 'as  I  never  tried  to  make  a 
blin'  fish  see  a  fli'c.' 

Ihit,  as  Mr.  Felix  pointed  out  to 
me,  there  was  no  necessity  for  tell- 
ing Mrs.  Felix  that  the  trout  wna 
blind,  women  having  many  peculiar 
and  imreasonablo  prejudices. 

W.  B. 


89 


TWENTY-FOUE  HOUES  OF  THE  SEASON. 


By  My  Lady's  Watch. 

OF  society's  life  the  first  da-wning 
Begins  with  the  letters— and  yawning ! 
Your  orders  you  give,  while  you're  slipping 
Your  tea ;  then  your  wrapper  on-slipping, 

You  submit  to  the  toils  of  the  morning — 
Your  lady's-maid  does  your  adorning ; 
While  you  skim,  during  ornamentation. 
The  latest  three-volume  '  sensation.' 

Next,  when  you  the  breakfast-room  turn-in, 
The  children  are  brought — with  the  urn — in; 
And  papa,  on  the  '  Times '  intent,  drily 
Doesn't  see  that  they  look  at  you  shily. 

Babes— and  breakfast— disposed  of,  your  jewels 
From  Hancock's,  your  dresses  from  Sewell's, 
Your  bonnet,  your  boots,  and  your  chignon 
Claim  full  sixty  minutes'  dominion. 

Then  off,  like  a  shot  from  a  cannon ! — 
To  horse,  and  away,  the  Row's  tan  on ! 
Just  pausing  at  times  in  your  canter 
Your  friends  at  the  railings  to  banter. 

In  your  brougham  soon  shopping  you're  hieing — 
Insi5ecting — electing — and  buying  : 
Then  home,  with  a  cargo  of  treasures. 
For  the  next  in  the  list  of  your  pleasures. 

You  then,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  show 
Your  tasteful  toilette  at  a  flow'r  show, 
Displaying,  'mid  roses  and  orchids. 
Light  muslins  and  pale  three- and-four  kids. 

Then,  the  Royal  Academy  in,  it's 
The  thing  to  appear  for  live  minutes. 
The  merits  of  MilJais  and  Leighton 
It  enables  you  glibly  to  prate  on. 

But  somehow  you  must  be  contriving 
By  six  in  the  Park  to  be  driving. 
Your  daughter  (the  eldest,  you  know,)  sits 
Beside  you— in  front  of  you  Flo  sits. 

Soon  homeward  you're  wearily  pressing 
With  prospects  of  dinner  and  dressing. 
Faint— aching  in  every  bone— you 
Your  maid  have  to  eau-de-Cologne  you. 

Till  you  meet— the  first  time  since  you  brake  fast- 
The  being  four  parsons  did  make  fast 
Your  slave,  at  St.  George's, — poor  sinner! — 
And  your  husband  and  you  have  your  dinner. 


10. 

She  awake  111, 


10-30. 
Dresseth, 


11. 

Breaketh  htr 
fast 


NOOV— 1  P.M. 

Eeceivethhei 
tradesfolk. 


1— 2-30. 

Takotli  horse 
exercise. 


Goeth  a- 
shopping. 


3—5. 

Visiteth  the 
Botanical. 


5—5-10. 

Glanceih  at 
the  Academy. 


Taketh  car- 
riage exer- 
cise. 


6—6-30. 
Goeth  to  her 
tiiiug-rooro. 


Hath  her 
dinner. 


■lu 


Ticenty-four  Hours  of  the  Season. 


9-9-5. 
VislteUi  her 
l>abc. 


9-5— 9-30. 
Ooeth  to  the 
Ol)era. 


9-:!  0—10. 

tllJnJ-oUl 

uoaIc 


n. 

Kndupth  her 
ball-dress. 


II  P.M.-T2-.30. 
.Showcth  her 
loyalty. 


I. 

I'liyelh 
b(>magf>  to 
Royalty. 

2—2-30. 
Ifastelh  to  a 
llalL 


Pisportetb 
herself. 


4—10. 
Uplirtlh  ta 
.est 


Fish,  s  lup,  cntroes,  meats,  sweet.'',  and  cheese  are 
Brouf^ht  ou— and  disciL'^scd  l)y  degrees  are; 
Whicli  leaves  you  live  inimitcs,  it  may  be, 
To  take  just  a  peep  at  the  baby  : — 

When  your  maid  comes,  observing,  '  My  leddy, 
Master  .says,  please,  the  kcrridge  is  ready ;' 
And  you're  otf,  Covent  Garden-wards  dasliing — 
Lamps  flashing,  wheels  splashing  and  cra^hiug. 

And  now  you  dis])lay  your  ecstatic 
Devotion  for  tilings  operatic  : — 
But  tlie  music,  you  talk  so  much  stufif  of, 
You  find  half  an  hour  quite  enough  of. 

Yet  a  wliole  one  find  .scarcely  suffices 
For  the  various  arts  and  devices, 
"Which  deck  you  in  satin  or  moire, 
Lace,  jewels,  and  plumes  for  the  soiree, 

To  wliich  you  are  speedily  rushing — 

To  find  there  much  squeezing  and  crushing. 

The  crowd  is  so  great,  to  get  in  it's 

A  matter  of  quite  ninety  minutes ! 

But  then,  though  the  struggle  dismajs  you, 
The  end  of  it  more  than  repays  you ! 
A  smile  upon  lips  tliat  are  royal 
IJewards  your  activity  loyal. 

You  return  to  your  brougham  enchanted, 
Y'et  glad  of  the  respite  that's  granted 
For  a  rest  on  the  carriage's  cushion. 
To  the  Countess's  Ball  while  yoil  push  on. 

But  to  shake  ofT,  soon  after  arriving. 
Your  weariness  you  are  contriving, 
Coote  and  Tinney  your  feet  quirkly  winning 
To  a  waltz-measure,  merrily  spinning. 

Wlien  at  last  yon  get  liome  it  just  four  is ! 

Every  bone  of  you  aching  and  sore  is — 

Y'ou  feel  that  existence  a  I'ore  is — 

So  is  gding  to  bed  up  three  stories; — 

AVhile  the  husliaiid  you  always  ignore  is 

Returned  from  supporting  the  Tories 

(Ho  M.P.  for  land-owners  galore  is), 

And,  forgetting  the  House's  uproar,  is 

Asleep  — souml  as  nail  in  a  duov  is: — 

So  your  greeting  just  only  a  snore  is  ; 

And  you  sleep  until  ten  it  once  more  Ls!  I.  U. 


><^^ 
S^^ 


^'PK 


41 


HAUNTS  FOR  THOSE  IN  SEARCH  OF  HEALTH. 


ALL  roads,  they  say,  lead  to  Eome, 
Imt  ours,  in  the  spring  of  1866, 
led  from  it,  not  by  the  easy,  rapid 
traveUing  of  raih-oads,  but  by  short 
stages  and  long  lingerings  in  old 
towns, "  where,  amidst  new  scenes 
and  fresh  sources  of  interest,  we 
hoped  to  banifeh  the  sadness,  that  all 
who  live  any  time  in  the  '  Eternal 
City '  invariably  experience  on  leav- 
ing it. 

It  was  not  until  we  reached  Ve- 
nice that  this  feeling  wholly  passed 
away.  That  fairy-like  city,  to  reach 
which  had  been  a  dream  of  early 
youth,  was  not  only  all  our  wildest 
romance  had  painted  her,  but  in  the 
delight  afforded  to  our  artistic  tastes, 
and  iu  the  poetic  sympathies  around, 
she  became  something  more — a  city 
of  consolation.  Here,  for  a  time,  we 
forgot  Rome.  The  very  entrance 
by  railway — in  other  capitals  so  un- 
promising, and  in  our  own  so  de- 
pressing— has  at  Venice  its  charm. 
It  was  late  when  we  arrived  from 
Padua.  The  somewhat  handsome 
station  was  like  any  other,  light  and 
noisy  and  bustling ;  but  passing 
from  it  into  the  open  air,  instead  of 
the  tumult  of  a  town,  silence  and 
night  came  suddenly  upon  us.  Our 
luggage  was  lowered,  with  few 
words,  into  a  gondola,  and  soon  we 
were  gliding  away,  indescribably 
soothed  by  the  sound  of  the  oars 
and  soft  ripple  of  the  waters,  and 
almost  awed  by  the  calm  and  repose 
of  all  around  us  after  the  noise  and 
hurry  of  the  journey.  The  sudden- 
ness of  the  change  from  light  to 
darkness ;  from  noise  to  silence ; 
from  the  rattle  of  a  carriage  to  the 
soft,  gliding  motion  of  a  gondola,  is 
infinitely  more  striking  than  the 
old,  tedious  approach  through  the 
Lagunes,  so  graphically  described 
by  a  modern  writer,  could  ever  have 
been.  It  was  the  most  delicious 
weather  in  this  enchanting  city ;  and 
although  rumours  of  war  were 
abroad,  and  Austrian  troops  were 
on  the  move  along  the  road  we  had 
traversed  after  crossing  the  Po, 
there  was  little  as  yet  to  show  that 


Venice  was  preparing  for  the  coming 
struggle.  We  took  up  our  abode 
on  the  Grand  Canal,  almost  imme- 
diately opposite  the  beautiful  church 
of  Santa  Maria  del  Salute ;  and  how 
varied  were  the  pictures  enjoyed 
from  the  balcony  of  our  temporary 
home ! 

In  the  afternoon  the  Grand  Canal 
was  the  scene  of  a  noiseless  anima- 
tion which  Venice,  and  Venice  alone, 
can  present.  How  grateful  to  the 
wearied  traveller  is  that  repose,  that 
silence  which  there  is  not  dullness 
Vessels  and  boats  came  to  load  and 
unload  at  the  Dogana  in  front  of  us ; 
and  turning  towards  the  red- towered 
island  of  St.  Giorgio  we  could  feel 
the  fresh  sea-breezes  as  we  watched 
bark  and  gondola  pass  and  repass ; 
could  trace  the  long  line  of  the  Eiva 
Schiavone  till  terminated  by  the 
green  of  the  Public  Gardens,  and, 
far  beyond  that,  the  grey  outline  of 
the  distant  Lido.  All  was  still, 
calm,  and  enjoyai)le.  We  could  sit 
tranquil  and  watch  twilight  deepen- 
ing, and  wonder  at  the  rich,  full 
colour  of  water  and  sky,  which  in 
Venice  the  absence  of  light  scarce 
seems  to  destroy,  listening  to  soft 
strains  of  music  from  some  match- 
less Austrian  band  on  the  Piazza 
San  Marco,  or  to  the  barcaroles  and 
serenades  from  the  boat's  crew  of 
some  passing  gondola.  But  these 
bright  scenes  were  soon  to  lose  their 
brilliancy.  One  of  those  rumours 
that  so  often  precede  real  trouble 
caused  a  sudden  jjanic;  strangers 
and  travellers  fled  in  haste,  and  in 
two  days  eighty  people  had  left 
Daniell's  hotel  alone,  followed  by 
many  of  the  wealthy  Venetians ;  and 
as  events  went  on,  and  war  became 
a  certainty,  the  town  and  its  waters 
were  deserted  by  all  but  those  whom 
necessity  detained. 

Secure  in  our  private  information, 
we  lingered  on,  noting  daily  the  in- 
crease of  soldiers  and  decrease  of 
civilians.  Austrian  uniforms  seemed 
to  multiply  in  colour  as  well  as  in 
number,  and  a  sort  of  death-like 
stillness  pervaded  the  air,  like  the 


42 


Haunts  for  tliose  in  Search  of  Health. 


cnlin  before  a  storm.  In  those  try- 
iiip;  days  of  long  susponFo,  it  was 
inijwssihle  not  to  admire  the  diiriii- 
fiod  karing  of  the  whole  Austrian 
garrison,  and  ]ierhaps,  too,  the  self- 
control  of  the  impatient,  over-san- 
guine Italian  ]iopulation. 

One  day  a  tiny  steamer  appeared 
in  front  of  otir  windows.  The  arch- 
duke had  K'cn  visiting  tlio  forts. 
All  was  in  readiness.  One  train 
only  connected  Venice  with  the  outer 
world.  At  any  moment  this  com- 
munication might  bo  cut  off,  and 
even  our  despairing  landlord  almost 
counselled  our  diparture.  So  re- 
luctantly we  sped  away  as  far  as 
railroads  could  take  us,  to  Botzenin 
the  Italian  Tyrol. 

Here,  whilst  the  Venetians  had 
to  endure  their  agony  of  suspen.so 
another  month,  we  remained,  revel- 
ling in  the  exquisite  scenery  which 
surrounds  the  town,  then  enlivened 
by  the  constant  ])assage  of  troops — 
Gorman  regiments  from  the  north 
going  south,  and  Italian  regiments 
from  the  south  going— alas  for  I3e- 
nedtk!— north. 

^Vci  took  up  our  abode,  after  a  few 
days  passed  at  the  clean,  excellent, 
and  moderate  hotel  of  the  Kaiser 
Krone,  in  a  little  villa  just  outside 
the  town,  surroundtd  by  vineyards, 
which  are  trained  at  Botzxn  on 
trellis- work,  and  form  leafy  roofs 
over  endliss  green  walks  ;  and  here, 
luxuriating  in  a  wealth  of  roses, 
flowers,  and  fruit,  we  waited  uncon- 
cerned the  issue  of  events.  This 
part  of  Tyrol  coniliines  all  that  is 
attractive  in  a  northern  and  sonthcm 
land.  It  is  made  up  of  harmonious 
contrasts.  The  rich,  warm  colour- 
ing of  Italy  lingers  there  amid  snow- 
cajiixfd  mountains  not  inferior  to 
the  Swiss  in  grandeur.  Picturesque 
ruins  are  perched  on  the  rugged 
heights  around,  whilst  the  gardens 
of  the  plain  are  fragrant  with  the 
perfume  of  the  orange  and  lemon 
trees.  The  jx.'opif  have  the  active 
industry  of  the  (JcrmanH  —  whoso 
language  tliey  siK.ak— with  the  com- 

f)lexion  and  want  of  jxrsonal  clean- 
inesfl  of  the  Widch,  as  they  con- 
temptuously call  the  Italian.  If 
they  are  ignonmt  and  supti-htitious, 
they  are,  at  any  rate,  loyal  and  reli- 
gious ;  and  as  at  this  tuue  they  had 


warmly  espoused  their  emperor's 
quarrel,  it  was  spirit-stirring  to  see 
bands  of  line  young  fellows  march- 
ing in  from  the  mountains  to  the 
sound  of  music,  in  obedience  to  the 
tocsin,  which  sounded  for  the  first 
levy  sliortly  after  our  arrival.  They 
are  soldiers  to  the  manner  born,  and 
even  their  festivities  have  a  martial 
character. 

One  morning  we  wercrou.scd  from 
our  sUep  by  what  Found(.tl  like  the 
booming  of  distant  cannon.  Again 
and  again  the  ominous  sounds  were 
heard  prolonged  I'y  the  reverbera- 
tion amongst  the  liills,  then  a  sharp, 
quick,  continued  tiring.  An  engage- 
ment somewhere!  and  we  jumi:)ed 
up  alarmed.  No;  it  was  only  a 
sainfs  day  which  these  Tyroleans 
invariably  celebrate  in  this  noisy 
manner,  beginning  by  a  .salute  at 
sunrise,  which  is  repeated  at  six 
o'clock,  at  twelve,  again  at  four,  ter- 
minating at  six  in  the  evening  by  a 
regular  feu  de  joic.  '  We  tire  in 
honour  of  our  Emperor;  we  ought 
to  fire  a  great  deal  more  for  God 
and  his  saints,'  is  their  view  of  the 
matter  and  homely  way  of  exjirese- 
ing  it.  We  have  dwelt  a  little  upon 
the  attractions  of  l?ot/en  because  it 
seems  to  us  so  desiraMe  a  halting- 
place  for  those  who,  having  passed 
the  winter  in  Italy,  turn  their  faces 
north  for  cooler  bree7.(s,  and  may 
wish  for  some  change  from  the  well- 
known  routes  to  Switzerland.  The 
Eea.son  for  Botzen  and  ^leran  is 
properly  the  autuum,  when  the 
grapes  attract  those  who  are  ordered 
'  the  cure  ;'  but  in  l\Iay  and  early  in 
June  the  climate  is  still  delightful. 
After  that,  the  heat  becomes  unen- 
durable, and  even  the  inhabitants 
fly  to  tlio  mountains.  Every  Bot- 
zaner  possesses  a  chalet  or  villa  on 
the  hills.  The  poorest  tradesman 
rents  a  few  rooms  in  some  peasant's 
house,  whither  he  sends  his  wife 
and  children,  with  a  store  of  pro- 
visions and  needle- work,  for  two 
long  months,  escaping  wlencver  he 
can  himself  from  the  l^tilllng  heat  of 
the  j)lain. 

Even  the  monks  of  the  large 
establishment  at  (jries, a  neighUmr- 
ing  village,  have  their  mountain 
residence,  and  scandalized  us  by 
engaging  our  excellent  cook,  with 


Haunts  for  those  in  Search  of  Health. 


43 


half  a  dozen  female  assistants  to 
cook  for  tliem  during  their  stay. 
She  added  to  lier  repertoire  various 
French  and  English  dishes  whilst 
with  ns,  which  she  thought  the 
*  Geistlichen  Herrn  '  would  appre- 
ciate, and  only  laughed  at  our  con- 
sidering their  arrangments  ques- 
tionable. According  to  all  accounts 
they  enjoyed  themselv^es  not  a  little 
on  the  mountains ;  but  as  they  are  a 
numerous  body,  and  their  hill  ac- 
commodation not  great,  many  of 
them  do  not  get  more  tban  ten  days' 
fresh  air  in  all. 

This  year  all  available  space  was 
being  prepared  for  the  wounded 
who  were  expected.  Hospital-room 
for  seven  hundred  soldiers  was  al- 
ready arranged  in  Botzen,  the  first 
batch  of  invalids  arriving  the  night 
before  we  left.  Not  the  wounded,  as 
yet,  but  the  fcvcr-stricken,  the  suf- 
ferers from  sunstroke,  &c. 

The  most  delicious  of  all  the  sur- 
rounding mountain  retreats  is  Upper 
Botzen,  2,000  feet  immediately  above 
the  town,  reached  by  a  zigzag  road 
through  shatly  woods,  in  a  continued 
ascent  for  two  hours.  The  village 
is  but  a  collection  of  small  white 
houses  or  chalets,  without  any  pre- 
tensions to  architectural  arrange- 
ment, but  scattered  about  in  what 
can  only  be  compared  to  a  lordly 
English  park,  with  noble  trees  and 
meadows  of  loveliest  turf,  but  mea- 
dows bright,  as  no  English  meadows 
can  be,  with  flowers  of  brilliant 
mountain  hues,  on  whose  mossy  and 
shady  banks  one  could  sit,  cool  even 
beneath  a  hot  June  sun,  and  enjoy 
views,  in  one  direction  of  the  fan- 
tastic and  grand  dolomite  moun- 
tains, in  the  other  of  Botzen,  its 
rivers  and  gardens,  with  the  valley 
of  the  Adige  stretching  south,  and 
carrying  one  in  imagination  to  Italy 
till  lost  in  the  blue  distance.  There 
is  none  of  that  keenness  in  the  air 
here  that  characterizes  most  of  the 
mountain  retreats  in  Switzerland;  it 
is  soft  and  mild  whilst  bracing,  and 
no  place  could  be  better  adapted  for 
the  consumptive  patient  or  those 
enervated  by  Italian  heat.  Unfor- 
tunately there  is  no  sort  of  accom- 
modation for  the  stranger  at  Upper 
Botzen,  not  even  an  inn.  He  must 
proceed  to  Eitten,  a  place  about  an 


hour's  walk  beyond,  where  there  is 
a  very  fair  hotel,  and  where  the 
sketcher,  the  botanist,  the  geologist, 
may  pass  his  time,  and  not  find  it 
dull,  even  if  no  '  Times,'  no  '  Gali- 
gnani,'  be  procurable.  In  point  of 
living,  he  will  be  better  off  than  in 
any  mountain  pension  in  Switzer- 
land. He  will  have  a  more  interest- 
ing, though  less  advanced  people  to 
deal  with,  moderate  charges,  and 
very  few  of  his  own  countrymen — if 
that  be  an  advantage  —  to  disturb 
the  even  tenour  of  his  life. 

We  should  have  transported  our- 
selves bag  and  baggage  to  these 
delicious  heights  fur  the  rest  of  the 
summer  could  we  have  foreseen 
the  speedy  close  of  the  coming 
war.  Surroimded  by  a  brave  and 
determined  people,  Austria  seemed 
to  us  formidable  and  a  general 
European  war  imminent;  so  we 
deemed  it  prudent  to  turn  our 
faces  towards  Switzerland,  and  on 
the  very  morning  of  the  declaration 
of  war  quitted  IJotzen  with  regret, 
leaving  behind  us  all  the  old  linen 
we  had  for  the  expected  wounded, 
and  carrying  away  with  us  beautiful 
nosegays  which,  according  to  the 
graceful  custom  of  the  country,  our 
servants  presented  us  with  at  part- 
ing. They  carry  this  pretty  custom 
still  further.  We  observed  a  car- 
riage arrive  one  day  at  the  hotel 
completely  decked  with  flowers,  and 
concluded  it  contained  a  bridal  pair. 
But  no;  it  was  a  family  who  had 
passed  the  whole  winter  in  one  of 
the  hotels  at  Meran,  and  on  leaving 
this  little  compliment  was  paid  them. 

It  is  about  two  hours'  drive  from 
Botzen  to  Meran,  which  place  we 
reached  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  heat  being  even  then  in- 
tense; for  although  mountains 
capped  with  snow  surround  the 
valley  in  which  this  little  town  is 
situated,  its  sheltered  position  and 
warm  aspect  give  to  its  climate  a 
mildness  which  in  winter  causes  it 
to  be  as  much  resorted  to  l>y  Ger- 
mans from  the  north  as  Mentone 
and  Cannes  are  by  the  delicate 
among  our  countrymen.  Its  natu- 
ral beauties  are  great,  but  at  this 
time  not  a  visitor  remained ;  the 
war  and  the  heat  had  frightened 
them  all  away. 


44 


Haunts  for  those  in  Search  of  Bealth. 


Wo  resumed  our  journoy  in  tho 
cool  of  tlie  ovouing,  liuviup;  taktu 
an  open  oarriagi'  as  extra  jiost.  inir 
luggage  luing  placed  on  one  of  the 
two  postwageu  immediately  ))re- 
ceding  us. 

The  scenery  on  the  road  offered 
everything  that  could  delight  the 
eye  or  refresh  the  senses. 

The  Adige  or  Etsch  flowed  Ixjside 
our  way,  now  a  rapid  torrent  tum- 
hling  over  rocks  in  tiny  waterfiills, 
now  laoad,  deep,  and  languid  as 
some  English  river.  Long  shailows 
were  stealing  over  the  meadows  of 
the  plain,  the  sweet  perfume  of 
newly-made  hay  scented  the  even- 
ing air,  whilst  mountain,  rock, 
ruins,  and  villages  were  disposed  in 
every  combination  of  beauty. 

It  was  midnight  when  we  reached 
jMals  and  delivered  uj)  our  passport 
to  a  non-commissioned  ofKcer  of  the 
Kaiser  Jiiger  (Imperial  liifles),  who 
regretted  that  the  exigencies  of  the 
moment  called  for  his  interference. 
This  little  place,  like  every  otlier 
village  or  town  wo  had  passed 
through,  wa.s  full  of  liiilos  and 
Sehiitztn,  as  the  armed  peasantry 
are  called;  but  we  must  not  dwell 
upon  this,  nor  uiion  our  visit  to  the 
Stelvio  Pass,  which  the  order  of 
the  officer  commanding  the  district 
enabled  us  to  enter,  nor  detail  how 
we  ascended  as  far  as  the  snow 
permitted  us,  and  saw  the  inepara- 
tions  made  by  tho  Austrians  for 
defending  this  important  passage 
into  Tyrol,  we  and  the  soldiers 
in  the  last  cantonment  being  per- 
haps the  solo  spectators  of.  two 
magniticent  avalanches  rolling  down 
the  side  of  the  Ortler.  We  must 
hurry  on  our  readers,  tis  we  were 
hurrie<l  on,  to  Nauders,  a  small 
and  miseralile  hamlet  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Fmstermiinz  Pa.s.s,  where  we 
were  to  take  leave  of  Tyrol  and 
enter  Switzerland  by  passing  over 
tho  low  ridge  which  divides  tho 
former  from  the  valley  of  the  Enga- 
dine. 

Wretched  and  (hrty  as  tho  inn  at 
Nauders  is,  an  archduke  li.id  slept 
there  the  night  Infore,  and  we  had 
to  wait  a  short  time  and  see  him 
come  out  and  enter  his  oirriage. 

Tho  Archduke  LeojMiId,  a  tall, 
finedooking  young  man,  waa  on  a 


tour  of  inspection,  visiting  the  forts 
and  passes  of  Tyrol :  ho  was  on  Ids 
way  to  Mais  and  the  Stelvio.  His 
presence  seemed  to  excite  little 
curiosity  and  no  cntliusiasm  amongst 
the  verv  small  grouj)  of  peasants 
and  travellers  round  the  inn  door, 
who  simply  raised  their  hats  in 
silence  when  he  ai>ptared,  wliich 
salutation  he  acknowledged  by  a 
few  stiff  bows. 

At  Nauders  the  traveller  may,  if 
he  pleases,  continue  his  road  through 
the  magnilicent  dedle  of  the  Fins- 
termiinz  till  he  reaches  the  valley  of 
the  U])per  Inn  at  Landeck.and  then 
turn  to  the  right  towards  Innspruck 
or  to  the  left  to  Lake  Coustiince,  or 
he  may  branch  otY  as  we  did,  de- 
scending a  rough  char  road  to  Mar- 
tinsbruck,  in  the  Engadine.  Which- 
ever route  ho  may  take,  the  whole 
road  from  Botzen  to  Finsterniiinz 
is  so  full  of  beauty  that  he  is  amply 
compensated  by  its  attractions  for 
the  very  indifferent  accommodation 
he  must  put  up  with  after  leaving 
Meran. 

The  descent  into  the  valley  of  the 
Engadine  is  also  extremely  beau- 
tiful. Tho  road  from  Nauders  to 
the  summit  of  the  ridge  dividing 
Tyrol  Irom  Switzerland  is  a  narrow 
rough  cart-road,  only  fit  fjr  tho 
einspanners  into  which  we  and  our 
luggage  were  deposited  (although 
some  adventurous  '"/,„ kutsdicrs  from 
Meran  do  drive  a  carriage  down  it), 
and  60  rapid  in  its  descent  on  the 
Swiss  side  as  to  make  the  timid 
much  prefer  walking;  but  this  en- 
ables them  to  enjoy  the  view  over 
the  long,  narrow  valley  of  tho  Enga- 
dine, with  its  pine-\vo(Mis  and  grand 
butsavage  hills,  the  wild,  impetuous 
Inn  d;i.shing  through  it  with  Hashes 
of  light  like  the  scales  of  a  silver 
serpent.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  this 
rapiil  torrent  is  cr()s^ed  l>y  a  bridge 
wliicli  gives  its  name  to  the  inn  and 
few  houses  clustered  round  it.  At 
Martinsbruck  connnences  an  excel- 
lent carriage-road,  such  as  Switzer- 
land is  everywhere  offering  to  her 
guests ;  and  one  of  her  comfortiiblo 
])ostwagens  conveyed  us  and  our 
luggage  to  the  new  and  splendid 
estahlisliiiKint  of  Tiirasp-Schuls.   • 

Whilst  the  I'atlis  and  Kurliaiiser 
ol    thu    L'pper   Engadine   have    lor 


Haunts  for  those  in  Search  of  Health. 


46 


many  years  been  much  frcqiicntctl, 
and  latterly  St.  IMoritz  has  licen  in 
special  favour  witli  English  medical 
men,  the  mineral  springs  of  Tarasp- 
Schuls  are  com])aratively  little 
known ;  and  had  they  been  more  so, 
the  very  limited  and  simple  accom- 
modation to  be  obtained  thrre  would 
probably  have  deterred  many  who 
might  have  gone  from  remaining,  lor 
the  scenery,  though  very  fine,  lias  not 
the  engrossing  loveliness  of  the 
Bernese  Oberlaud;  its  savage  gran- 
deur can  only  be  well  explored  by 
the  strong  and  hardy,  who  must 
first  mount  the  steeps  on  either  side 
the  Inn.  Schuls  itself,  a  poor  little 
uninteresting  village,  situated  nearly 
at  the  end  of  this  long  Eliaitian  val- 
ley, which  forms  at  Marti  nsbruck  a 
natural  cul  de  sac,  is  disconnected 
and  literally  quite  out  of  the  world. 

Nevertheless  its  nn"neral  .springs, 
which  extend  over  a  tlistance  of 
nearly  three  miles  in  a  straight  line, 
are  very  important;  and  now  that 
for  the  last  three  years  accommoda- 
tion on  a  splendid  scale  has  been 
provided  for  visitors  in  the  new 
Kurbaus  at  Tarasp,  they  seem  likely 
to  become  some  of  the  most  fre- 
quented and  important  in  Switzer- 
land. 

About  a  mile  from  Schuls,  imme- 
diately below  the  little  hamlet  of 
Tarasp,  which  with  its  ruined  castle, 
its  tiny  lake  and  monastery,  is  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  spots  in  the 
neighbourho'id,  tlie  ground  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Inn  recedes  some- 
what in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre, 
leaving  a  large  level  space  between 
the  high  road  and  the  river,  upon 
which  the  new  hotel  has  been  built. 
It  is  a  handsome  structure  five  hun- 
dred feet  long  and  fifty  feet  high, 
capable  of  accommodating  three 
hundred  peoi)le  with  ease:  the 
ground  between  the  house  and  river 
is  laid  out  in  walks  and  flower-beds; 
but  little  can  be  done  for  a  garden 
in  that  rude  climate,  and  few  trees 
beyond  pines  and  stunted  alders 
flourish  ill  this  part  of  Switzerland. 

The  plan  of  the  house  is  simple,  a 
central  building  with  two  wings. 
The  crouiid  floo!'  contains  breakfast 
or  coffee-room,  bdliard  and  dra^^^ng- 
rooms,  offices  and  baths;  the  first, 
second,  and  third  floors,  traversed 


by  wide  corridors,  are  divided  into 
bedrooms  and  private  sitting-rooms. 
A  magnificent  dining-room  is  also 
provided  on  the  first  floor. 

The  house,  in  short,  is  well  suited 
to  its  purpose.  In  hot  weather—  and 
it  was  extremely  hot  during  our  so- 
journ at  the  baths— these  wide  corri- 
dors were  always  cool  and  airy,  and 
in  wet  weatlier  patients  may  pace 
up  and  down  them  to  procure  the 
amount  of  exercise  prescribed,  which 
in  some  cases  forms  part  of  the  cure. 
The  bedrooms,  with  the  excei^tion 
of  two  or  three  suites  with  private 
sitting-rooms  attached  to  them,  are 
all  furnished  alike,  simply  but  suffi- 
ciently, and  are  far  more  comfort- 
able tlian  those  of  any  other  bath 
in  Switzerland.  Each  room  con- 
tains a  single  bed,  and  the  price  is 
four  francs  for  those  on  the  first 
floor  and  three  francs  for  those  on 
the  second  and  third.  Private  sit- 
ting-rooms are  dear,  but  there  are 
very  few  pensions  or  hotels  where 
a  sitting-room  may  be  so  well  dis- 
pensed with  as  at  Tarasp.  A  bil- 
liard and  reading-room  adjoins  the 
breakfast  or  coffee-room  on  the 
ground  floor  for  gentlemen,  whilst 
ladies  are  provided  with  two  large 
and  handsome  drawing-rooms  ;  and 
dinner,  which  is  at  half-past  one,  is, 
when  a  sufficient  number  of  guests 
have  arrived,  served  in  one  of  those 
spacious  and  much-decorated  salons 
which  the  fashion  of  the  elay  seems 
to  consider  indispensable  to  a  great 
hotel.  Everything  is  well  cooked 
and  well  served,  but  not,  it  must  be 
owned,  very  abundant;  but  as  there 
is  another  table-d'hote  at  seven, 
called  supper,  nearly  the  same  as 
the  dinner,  it  is  quite  possible  to 
manage  upon  tiiese  two  meals, 
which,  with  a  breakfast  of  tea  or 
coffee  and  bread  and  butter,  are 
giv^en  for  six  francs  a  head,  so  that 
each  person's  daily  expen-es,  in- 
cluding wine  and  service,  would  be 
from  twelve  to  fourteen  francs,  and 
rather  more  if  coffee  or  tea  is  taken 
m  the  afternoon. 

This,  of  course,  is  a  much  higher 
rate  than  the  generality  of  pensions 
in  Switzerland  ;  but  it  is  not  dear, 
when  it  is  considered  that  every- 
thing must  be  lirought  from  a  dis- 
tance to  that  sterile  region.  Attached 


46 


Haunts  for  (hose  in  Search  of  Health. 


to  the  hotel  is  a  kitchen-garden, 
where  a  few  vegetables  nro  raised 
witli  (litlioulty,  tlio  soil  Ihmiijjc  ]i()()r 
nn'l  mn)ri)iinctiv«!;  there  is  also  a 
dairy,  poultry- yard,  iVx.  IMcat  is  tlio 
only  tiling  in-ocurcd  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood. So  much  for  the  hotel, 
which  is  directed  witli  great  order 
and  system  l<y  a  manager,  and  is 
the  sjieculation  of  a  comjjany,  wlio 
commenced  operations  in  1S64. 

The  mineral  springs  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  hotel 
lie  chietly  on  the  right  bank  of 
the  Inn,  and  the  two  most  in 
use  are  saline  in  character,  and 
called  the  St.  Lucius  and  St.  Eme- 
rita  springs.  The  former  bubbles 
up  bright  and  clear,  in '  consequence 
of  a  considerable  development  of 
carbonic  aciil  gas,'  and  has  by  no 
means  an  unpleasant  taste,  when 
quite  fresh  resembling  very  much 
•what  the  peasants  on  the  Nassau 
banks  of  the  Ithine  called  '  sour 
water.' 

These  arc  the  two  favourite 
springs.  There  are  various  others, 
both  saline  and  chalybeate;  and 
some  a])])roximating  so  nearly  to 
tho.'^e  of  Vichy,  that  they  are  con- 
sidered as  ellicacious  as  the  French 
water  in  certain  ailments.  But  the 
saline  springs — for  the  chemical  an- 
alysis of  wliich  we  refer  the  reader 
to  the  ]iaiii]»tilet  published  at  the 
baths— are  saiil  to  have  wonderful 
effects  in  bracing  the  languid,  stimu- 
lating sluggish,  livers,  and  hear, 
oh  Banting !  reducing  the  corpir- 
lent.  If  indulged  in  too  freely 
without  advice  they  may  affect  the 
head ;  but  taken  imder  proper 
guidance,  they  really  seem  to  do 
nnich  towards  restoring  health  and 
sjiirits.  A  patient  wlio  had  been 
but  a  few  days  there,  said,  '  This 
water  is  like  wine  to  me.  1  feel  like 
a  bird !' 

A  similar  spring,  but  less  power- 
ful, is  used  for  lathing  in,  with 
iKuetit,  in  cases  of  rheumatism  and 
skin  di.scaBO.  The  residt,  gentle 
re.'uler,  of  six  wteks  daily  immer- 
sion in  this  wattr  is  not  a  Incoming 
one;  the  skin  assumes  a  rcddish- 
brrtwn  hue,  which,  however,  pa.ssos 
off  like  tan  or  burning. 

There  were  only  aliout  twenty 
guests  when  we  arrived  at  the  Kur- 


haus,  and  of  these  nearly  half  were 
Danes;  nice  friendly  pei)i)le;  a 
diplomatist  and  his  wile  ;  a  widow 
with  two  single  si>ters,  who  hatl 
courageously  pas.sed  through  the 
Prussian  lines,  and  saw  the  raiLs 
torn  up  l)ehind  by  the  soldiers  as 
the  train  rolled  on  to  Frankfort. 
The  widow  spoke  English  in  a 
fashion  of  her  own :  '  Wills  you,' 
.said  she,  with  her  ])Uasant  smile, 
'  like  to  walk  with  us  to  the  willage? 
— the  doctor  will  show  us  the  way.* 
We  accejUed  ;  for  although  we  had 
been  to  the  '  willage  '  and  the  Castle, 
the  iloctor,  wo  knew,  was  a  great 
lH)tanist,  and  the  fields  on  the 
plateau  of  Tarasp  are  richer  than 
any  other  place  1  know  in  lloral 
treasures. 

Wo  assembled  at  three  o'clock, 
after  our  early  dinner,  and  started 
on  our  walk.  Our  way  lay  across 
the  river,  and  uj)  the  heights  oppo- 
site. Our  widow  felt  the  heat  and 
the  a.scent ;  but,  as  she  confided  to 
us  that  she  had  imdertaken  the 
cure  in  order  to  get  thin,  we  en- 
couraged her  to  jifoceed,  and  con- 
versation was  carried  on  chiefly  in 
English,  which  all  the  Danes  spoke 
more  or  less,  whilst  none  of  them, 
excejit  the  dijilomatist,  were  ac- 
quainted with  French.  Our  party 
was  increasetl  by  a  German,  who 
had  only  arrived  that  morning, 
lie  too  spoke  English ;  and  our 
talk  was  naturally  of  the  coming 
struggle  iHjtween  North  and  South. 
The  Danes,  with  little  cause  to  love 
either  party,  were  Austrian  in  their 
sym])athies.  Our  Oerman  was  evi- 
dently Prussian  ;  yet  he  announced 
himself  as  from  the  South. 

'  Then,'  we  remarked  to  him,  '  you 
are  ])robably  from  i'.adeii;  for  we 
met  with  someagreeal)le  j)eo])le  last 
year  from  Baden,  who  hehl  precisely 
the  same  views  as  yourself.' 

'  Indeed  ;  from  Baden  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  from  F g.' 

'What?— from  F g?'  ho  re- 
joined, with  interest. 

'Yes;  a  Baron  von  B ,  with 

his  family :  wo  ])assed  some  weeks 
together  in  the  sunie  house.' 

I'pon  which  the  stranger  smiled, 
stoppeil  short,  and,  making  a  low 
bow,  .said,  '  1  am  iiis  eldest  sor,' 

How  small  is  the  worM  alter  all! 


Haunts  for  those  m  Search  of  Health. 


47 


UevG,  on  the  top  of  a  raountgJn  in  a 
remote  part  of  Helvetia,  we  liad 
met  with  one  who  knew  all  about 
us,  whose  brother  we  had  parted 
with  but  a  short  time  before  in 
Eon;e,  and  whose  parents  we  had 
fallen  in  with  during  the  previous 
summer ! 

Our  new  acquaintance  had  come, 
he  told  us,  for  the  *  cure,'  sent  by 
his  colonel,  and  was  to  remain  six 
weeks.  He  was  an  officer  in  the 
Baden  troops  of  the  Bund  ;  and,  but 
for  this  arrangement,  might  shortly 
have  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  own  brother;  for  he,  aide-de- 
camp to  a  German  prince  who  had 
espoused  the  cause  of  Prussia,  was 
now  fighting  for  those  preten- 
sions winch  Baden  openly  declared 
against,  but  secretly  sympathized 
with. 

The  routine  of  life  for  those  under- 
going the  '  cure '  at  Tarasp  seemed 
much  the  same  for  all  patients. 
Most  of  them  were  at  the  springs 
by  six  o'clock.  Beginning  with  two 
or  three  glasses,  taken  at  intervals 
of  ten  and  fifteen  minutes,  the 
patient  gradually  increases  the 
number  to  six.  Two  hours  are 
occupied  in  walking  and  drinking; 
and  then  breakfast,  consisting  of 
tea  or  coffee,  with  bread  and  butter, 
may  be  taken. 

After  breakfast,  rest  for  an  hour 
is  enjoined,  before  proceeding  to 
the  bath,  which  is  warmed  to  a 
temi^erature  of  25° — 28°  Cent.,  and 
where  the  patient  remains  a  short 
half-hour.  After  the  bath,  rest 
again  until  dinner-time,  at  one 
o'clock,  after  which  the  '  cure  guest ' 
may  consider  the  rest  of  the  day 
his  own,  drinking  perhaps  one 
or  two  glasses  of  water  in  the 
evening.  Those  who  are  not  strong 
enough  for  lengthened  walks  and 
excursions  must  find  their  amuse- 
ment in  the  society  of  friends,  or  in 
studying  the  manners  of  the  mixed 
society  around  them,  Tara?p  itself, 
not  offering  much  in  the  way  of 


amusement.  Enclosed  between  lofty 
mountains,  the  views  become  mono- 
tonous. There  is  but  one  road  to 
drive  upon  ;  and  one  must  drive  to 
a  distance  for  change  of  scene,  the 
long  narrow  valley  of  I^ower  Enga- 
dine  presenting  for  miles  the  same 
features ;  but  those  who  can  ascend 
its  rugged  sides  will  be  repaid  by 
grand  views,  curious  geological  for- 
mations, wild  flowers,  m  a  ijrofusion 
and  a  brilliancy  of  colour  unsur- 
passed by  any  other  land,  and  a 
character  of  country  differing  alto- 
gether from  any  other  part  of  Swit- 
zerland. 

Visitors  from  England  have  at 
Chur  the  choice  of  two  routes :  the 
one  over  the  St.  Julier  Pass  to 
Samaden ;  and  the  road  recently 
made,  shorter  and  more  direct,  over 
the  Albula  Pass  to  Ponte.  This 
road,  which  can  only  be  kept  open 
during  three  months  of  the  year, 
is  not  too  safe,  and  in  places  so 
narrow  that,  if  two  postwagens 
meet,  they  have  much  difficulty  in 
passing  each  other;  but  Swiss 
post-horses  are  wondtrfuUy  steady, 
and  Swiss  postilions  have  cool 
heads,  and  seldom  meet  with  an 
accident.  The  road  in  one  place 
traverses  what  the  Germans  have 
well  named  a  Triitnmer  feld.  A 
vast  field  of  rocks,  as  if  some 
gigantic  mountain  had  been  over- 
thrown and  broken  into  pieces. 
In  another  place  it  winds  round 
the  face  of  steep  cliffs,  at  a  dizzy 
height.  Every  incli  of  the  road  has 
been  gained  by  blasting;  and  tliis 
narrow  romantic  defile  equals  the 
Via  Mala  in  grandeur  and  beauty. 

Half-way  between  Chur  and 
Tarasp  is  the  pretty  angler's  vil- 
lage of  Tiefenkasten,  the  point  from 
which  several  roads  diverge;  and 
here  the  traveller,  if  the  weather  be 
bad  and  he  feels  nervous  about 
crossing  the  Albula,  may  proceed 
by  the  less  interesting  but  more 
secure  pass  of  St.  Julier. 


w 


SHADOWS  IX  OUTLINE. 

JTram  ait  ORr,  Olti  ^s-hrtrlj  iiaalx. 

Vr  THE  Acrnon  of  '  Binru  Sweets  '  and  '  The  Tallants  of  Cahton.' 


IXTRODrCTIOX. 


Di:rKXI)  upon  it  life  is  a  prim 
jnke — a  fantii'^tic  nd mixture  of 
the  PiiMimo  and  ridiculons.  Look 
Imclc  ujwn  your  own  career,  ray 
friei  d,  and  Pce  wiiat  a  strange  tan- 
pled  weft  it  is.  W'liat  smudges  and 
Motclies  and  patches  there  are  in 
it !  Every  now  and  tlicn,  it  is  true, 
you  see  a  gorgeous  bit  of  i)attcrn, 
full  of  graceful  lines  and  curves; 
but  do  tliey  rot  run  into  ridiculous 
twists  anil  twirls  and  fantastic  angles 
that  burlesque  the  beautiful  and 
travesty  the  sublime? 

I  offer  you  these  three  rough 
etchings  of  my  own  life  by  way  of 
ilbistration.  Limned  from  nature, 
you  may  take  them  as  untouched 
studies.  They  tell  their  own  story, 
and  leave  something  to  the  imagi- 
Dation  besiiles. 


DAYBREAK. 

A  long  straggling  crooked  street 
with  the  shallow  of  tlio  Klizubethan 
age  upon  it ;  a  street  with  old  gabled 
houses  in  it,  and  dark  alleys;  a 
street  to  wander  about  and  ponder 
about.  Nearly  every  slK)p  was  a 
museum  of  curiosities.  The  brokers 
of  the  city— tlio  fine  old  city  of 
Sevcrncross — had  settled  down  in 
Tick  Street  like  a  swarm  of  birds, 
and  had  made  their  nests  in  a  lino, 
after  tlic  fashion  of  the  few  atiti<|UO 
swallows  which  had  visited  Tick 
Street  from  time  immemorial. 

Tlie  brokers'  lusfs  were  varied  by 
a  few  pre.  ngiooers,  who  were  tole- 
nted  l)ecauso  they  ^^en-  useful  in 
supplsing  the  oMiei-s  with  potatoes 
and  cabliages,  dried  fi.sh  and  ciicum- 
br  rs.  But  no  other  fon  ign(  rs  Ui  the 
trilK)  were  permitted,  except  R  Jew 
clothcsman,  wlio  took  up  his  station 
in  a  dark  corner  dt  spito  the  most 
formidable  oppcjsitioii ;   and  I  ques- 


tion whether  '  Sloshes,'  as  ho  was 
called  in  derision,  would  liave  tri- 
umi>lud  but  for  the  triple-bailed 
banner,which  had  astrangecliarra  for 
the  greengrocers'  wives  of  tlie  quar- 
ter, and  other  slatternly  won)en  from 
distant  streets,  who  visited  the  Jew 
at  all  seasons  with  eomcthiug  under 
their  aprons. 

The  brokers  were  a  proud  race 
and  a  curious;  but,  strange  to  say, 
they  Were  uniler  pelticoiit  govern- 
ment, and,  strange  to  say,  under 
spinsterial  government.  ]\[iss  Whil- 
elmeua  Jinks  was  the  cliief  of  tlie 
race,  and  next  to  her  came  JIi.s8 
Chalks.  Both  lach'cs  were  art'sts  in 
their  way,  and  supplemented  bro- 
kering with  artistic  cm])loyment. 
Miss  Jinks  made  wax  figures  and 
'  tablows,'  as  she  called  them,  and 
Jliss  Chalks  stuffed  birds. 

Miss  Jinks,  who  wore  red  riblKins 
in  her  cap,  rejoice<l  in  a  pale  yet 
persistent  moustache,  and  m  as  given 
to  bursting  the  hooks  of  her  dress 
l)ehiud,  did  a  fair  amount  of  busi- 
ness in  all  tho.so  miscellaneous 
articles  of  furniture  which  are  often 
to  Ix)  picked  up  cheap  at  sales  by 
auction  by  the  professional  bidder 
Avho  bids  and  bides  his  time;  who 
is  the  first  to  put  in  an  ajipear- 
ance  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  auc-  • 
tioneers  rostrum,  and  the  last  to 
leave  the  ]ilace.  Miss  Jinks  had  a 
fierce,  quick  way  of  biiMing,  too, 
which  was  said  to  be  highly  .suc- 
cessful, and  which  wis  loo'crd  upon 
as  a  Wonderful  gift  by  Ik  r  numerous 
colleagues.  Some  of  them  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  her  moustache 
had  been  a  fortune  to  her,  but  tliey 
never  went  into  any  detailed  rea<-ons 
for  this  assertion. 

The  truth  is,  Mi.'js  Jinks  had  a 
masculine,  domineering  way  with 
lier,  and  was  an  energetic  woman, 
continually  fighting  and  asserting 
herself.  She  was  per|i(  tnnlly  an- 
nouncing her  birth  and  ]iaient;ige. 


nrawii  l)V  Lionel  C.  Henley.] 


SHADOWS   IN    OUTLINE. 


[i»ee  the  Storv. 


Shadows  ill  Outline. 


49 


and  demonptraling  licr  superiority 
both  in  learning  and  wealili. 

'  My  father,  atli  I  have  thaid  be- 
fore, wath  a  merchant,  and  a  mer- 
chant in  thith  very  city,  and  a 
boarding-school  education  was  mino 
from  a  child,  with  iipc  of  the  globes 
and  wool-work;  and  when  1  came 
to  years  of  discretin,  I  copied  his 
contracts,  and  kep  his  ledger,  and 
it  is  not  for  those  who  have  been 
brought  np  otherwise  to  compete 
with  one  that  has.' 

There  was  no  gairsajing  this 
from  a  woman  of  forty,  who  looked 
at  you  with  a  ]iair  of  fierce  grey 
eyes,  and  who  flourished  a  brawny 
arm,  that  could  easily  have  struck 
you  to  the  earth  if  you  had. 

'  It's  all  very  well  for  your 
Chalkses  and  others  to  set  them- 
selves up,  and  make  out  that  they 
have  real  genteel  ideas,  but  they 
are  not  to  ba  had  for  twopence 
a  week  at  a  charity  school,  no  more 
than  real  mahogany  is  to  be  bought 
for  the  irnce  of  deal.  Your  Chalkses 
may  think  it  elevating  to  stuti"  birds 
and  put  glass  eyes  in  their  ])Oor 
weak  little  heads;  but  it's  for  them 
as  knows  what  true  art  is  to  snap 
their  fingers  at  such  rubbish.  "What 
do  you  say,  Arthur  ?' 

That  was  your  humble  servant. 
1  was  Arthur;  I,  Arthur  Westwood. 
When  this  little  outbieak  of  temper 
on  the  part  of  Miss  Jinks  occurred, 
1  had  been  engaged  for  more  tlian  a 
week  to  assist  in  painting  her  wax 
figures.  My  fatlier  and  mother 
were  '  poor  but  industritms,'  as  the 
story  books  put  it,  aud  my  five 
shillings  a  week  formtd  an  impor- 
tant addition  to  the  general  stock. 

Miss  Jinks  had  three  rooms  set 
apart  for  her  '  Gallery  of  Arts,'  her 
*  Wonders  in  Wax,'  to  which  her 
customers  were  admitted  without 
charge,  anci  which  she  contemplated 
removing  at  some  future  day  to  the 
great  metropolis.  Her  figures  were 
about  the  size  of  the  ordinary  Punch 
puppets,  and  they  were  all  her  own 
manufacture.  There  were  amongst 
them  kings  and  queens  and  princes 
of  all  climes;  poets  and  generals, 
pickpockets  aud  murderers;  and  a 
model  of  every  bird,  L)cast,  and  rep- 
tile, copied  from  a  large  folio  edition 
of  '  Goldsmith's  Animated  Nature.' 

VOL.  XII.— NO.  LXVII. 


Some  of  the  figures  were  grouped  in 
tableaux,  aud  otheia  were  stuclc  up 
in  single  file.  There  was  Daniel  in 
the  licm's  den,  and  Moses  holding 
up  the  serpent;  Niipoleon  at  St. 
Helena;  the  coronaticm  of  Queen 
Victoria;  the  trial  of  a  bandit  chief; 
the  caj^ture  of  a  negro ;  and  Byrou 
bidding  adieu  to  his  native  hills. 

Soitie  of  these  groups  .were  en- 
closed in  glass  cai^O'?.  ]\Iiss  Jinks 
set  most  value  upon  the  Scripture 
pieces ;  and  she  had  snccee  led,  by 
means  of  a  pair  of  old  clock-wheels, 
a  piece  of  siring,  and  a  handle,  in 
making  Daniel  nod  his  head  at  an 
apoplectic  lion,  and  by  the  same 
appliances  the  snake  was  made  to 
spin  round  and  round ;  but  Miss 
Jinks  explained  to  her  friends  and 
admirers  that  she  soared  above 
mere  tricks  of  this  .^oit:  she  had 
only  introduced  mechanism  just  to 
show  what  might  be  done;  her 
great  object  was  to  imitate  nature 
in  all  its  beauteous  forms  and 
colours;  and  she  hoped  she  had 
succeeded— to  say  nothing  of  the 
correct  costumes  of  the  pt  riods. 

When  persons  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary position,  after  making  a  pur- 
chase, were  induced  to  visit  the 
gallery.  Miss  Jinks  would  quietly 
slip  behind  a  curtain  in  the  third 
room,  and  perform  sundry  w^ll- 
known  airs  on  an  old  square  piano, 
which  she  had  bought  at  t'^e  !?ale  of 
the  boarding-school  establishment 
where  she  was  educated,  and  upon 
which  she  had  hartit  the  five- 
fingered  exercise.  Miss  Jinks  was 
a  lover  of  order  and  harmony.  She 
liked  all  things  to  be  in  keeping, 
she  said,  and  so,  when  her  vi.sitors 
were  looking  at  Daniel,  she  struck 
up  the  Old  Hundredth  with  impos- 
sible variations  ;  '  Eob  Roy'  accom- 
panied the  bandit  scene,  and  'God 
save  the  Queen  '  the  coronation. 

The  figures  were  marvt  Is  in  the 
way  of  eyes  and  arms.  The  former 
were  always  very  wide  open,  and 
the  latter  usually  fixed  in  a  pain- 
ful assertion  of  assumed  authority. 
Napoleon  was  looking  through  his 
glass  at  a  soldier,  who  was  close  to 
him ;  and  Queen  VicUiria  w;is  sitting 
very  jauntily  on  a  pasteboard  throne, 
nursing  her  sceptre  in  a  very 
maudlin  fashion,  amongst  a  crowd 


50 


Shadows  in  Outline. 


of  rickctty,  drunken,  spoonoy-look- 
ing  loiils,  ami  dukes,  and  generals, 
and  liihliops ;  some  witli  drawn 
swords,  otiui-s  with  tlieir  liands 
upon  tlieir  liips,  stiikinj^  magni- 
ficent attitudes,  li^ronwas  sifting 
up  in  a  boat  all  alone,  with  his  shirt- 
collar  undone,  and  liis  native  hills 
were  rising  up  a  few  inches  from 
the  shore,  and  in  a  very  threatening 
attitude;  whilst  in  the  lions'  den, 
at  the  coronation,  at  St.-  Helena, 
and  in  the  wildi-rness,  birds  and 
heasts  and  reptiles  were  flying  and 
creeping  and  jirowling  about  in  all 
the  glory  of  blue,  and  red,  and 
green,  and  yellow,  with  golden  heads, 
and  tails,  and  eyes,  and  legs,  and 
feet,  of  the  most  vai-ied  and  gor- 
geous hue. 

Miss  Jinks  loved  plenty  of  colour. 
'  Nature  has  not  stinted  it,  and  no 
more  will  we,  Arthur  ;  so  just  give 
that  peacock  another  touch  of  blue, 
and  give  the  lizard  a  green  toi> 
ping.' 

And  in  that  little  room  where  the 
figures  received  tlieir  final  touches 
of  colour,  I,  Arthur  AVestwood, 
receive<l  the  gorgeous  spinster's  in- 
structions, and  carried  them  out. 
Few  ftllows  would  believe  that  this 
w!xs  my  first  introduction  to  art. 
My  instructress  had,  as  I  have  said, 
:•  tremendous  eye  for  colour,  an<l 
she  was  always  anxious  that  it 
^l.ollld  Ix)  understood  she  was  an 
amateur.  Art  wiis  not  her  pro- 
f.-sion,  neither  was  it  a  necessity  to 
'  ir  on  the  score  of  money  ;  it  was 
1  (jr  hobby,  her  recreation,  and  she 
never  failed  to  explain  all  this  upon 
a'l  occasions. 

'  Your  Chilkscs  and  such  like 
may  ])reteiid  to  be  brokers  and 
furniture  dealers  and  oonniseers  of 
articUs  of  viituo,  but  it  is  one  thing 
to  do  that  as  a  profession,  and  live 
bv  it,  and  another  to  stuff  birds  an<l 
all  sorls  of  filthy  things,  and  really 
g-  >  your  bread  and  clieesc  by  that; 
though  why  I  shonM  wiy  bread  and 
cliee.sc.  when  it  is  well  kiif)wn  that 
t'lie  Chnlkses  mostly  dine  ofl'  the 
bodies  of  the  birds  and  Ixasls  which 
they  stufT— the  process  is  well 
Iciii  Avn  ;  btit  it  is  not  for  me  to  say 
nothing  against  my  neighbours,  and 
m  never  mind  that,  Artlnir,  but 
!  "*k   to  the  colour,  and  dout  be 


afraid  of  your  blues  and  reds.  If 
nature  makes  a  thing  blue,  why 
nature  means  it  to  bo  real  blue,  and 
so  make  it  a.s  blue  as  you  can, 
Arthur.' 

It  was  a  strange  world,  this  new 
world  which  ojiened  up  to  me  at 
Jinks's;  quite  a  world  of  wonder 
and  romance.  To  be  allowed  to 
revel  in  (joldsniith's  book,  and  the 
history  of  England,  a  book  of  fairy 
tales,  eastern  legends,  and  Byron's 
poems  ;  and  not  only  to  look  at  the 
pictures,  but  to  ])aint  models  from 
them,  and  have  real  paints  and 
brushes!  This  was  something  be- 
yond all  my  chiliiisli  dreams;  and 
to  have  five  sliillings  a  week  for 
such  glorious  amusement !  There 
was  something  so  marvellously 
romantic  about  the  whole  thing 
that  hiilf  my  time  I  could  not  help 
believing  that  ]\Iiss  AVhilelrnena 
Jinks  was  an  eccentric  geni  who 
lavished  favours  upon  me  from 
pure  good-nature. 

A  room  all  to  myself,  and  paints 
all  to  myself,  and  all  tiic  contents  ot 
a  Noah's  nrk  done  up  in  wax  to 
paint  and  fasten  feathers  u]>on,  and 
row.s  of  dolls  waiting  for  their  cheeks 
tn  be  rouged!  It  Mas  quite  a  little 
]iara'lise.  AVhen  I  went  home  to 
dinner  every  day,  I  walked  along  the 
streets  with  my  studio  and  paints 
and  iiictun  s  continually  in  my  poor 
little  noddle.  All  very  ridiculous; 
and  yet  that  made  me  a  jiainter. 
Ay,  and  more ;  my  being  an  artist 
was  the  means  of  introducing  nie 
to  her  who  made  such  a  change  in 
the  tangled  weft  of  my  tangletl  life, 
that  I  may  exhibit  it  fairly,  in  proof 
of  the  grim,  ridiculous  blending  of 
pain  and  pleasure,  and  greatness 
and  littleness,  in  the  web  which  we 
comiilete  at  last. 

The  time  som  camo,  you  may 
be  sure,  when  I  discovered  that  my 
spinsterial  angel  was  anything  Vmt 
a  goddess.  I  was  Imrdiy  twelve 
years  old  when  I  found  that  I  was 
living  in  a  fool's  jiaradise,  and  that 
all  the  visitors  made  fun  of  Miss 
Jinks  and  her/"///  artist.  Oh,  that 
I  could  have  none  on  in  my  igno- 
rance, bli.s.sfiilly  ));iiiiting  ])npj)ets! 
When  my  father  Ucame  well  off  I 
Avent  to  school,  and  learnt  to  be 
ashamed   of  the    uumo    of  Jinks, 


Shadows  in  Outline. 


51 


though  I  imbibed  my  Ioa'o  of  art  at 
tliat  miukly  sonrre  in  Tick  Street, 
wliere  the  morn'iig  of  my  life  first 
broke  in  sucli  glories  of  blue,  and 
carmine,  and  amber. 

II. 


No,  I  would  not  part  with  that 
palette  for  a  hundred  pounds.  I  am 
not  rich  either,  heaven  knows  that! 
I  have  painted  for  years  and  years, 
and  old  Tandy,  the  dealer,  takes  a 
sufficient  number  of  jjictures  from 
uie  to  make  my  income  enough  for 
an  old  bachelor.  But  a  hundred 
pounds,  no,  not  a  thou. sand,  would 
buy  that  poor  li  tie  palette,  with  the 
dried-up  patches  of  colour  upon  it — 
her  palette. 

I  was  a  young  fellow  when  first  I 
knew  her.  She  was  a  member  of 
that  drawing-class  which  I  esta- 
blished in  the  northern  city.  You 
don't  know  the  city  ?  A  quaint  old 
monldsh  place  to  dream  away  a  life 
in ;  a  city  with  a  cathedral  ami  castle 
which  the  sun  lights  up  in  a  thou- 
sand strangely  lieautifiil  ways;  a 
city  fully  represented  l»y  those  eccle- 
siastical and  feudal  buildiugs,  which 
stand  on  a  high  hill  overlookmg  the 
Wear.  ]Mr.  Eeverley  has  put  many 
a  bit  of  the  banks  of  this  same  water 
into  his  magnificent  Drury  Lane 
scenery.  But  how  I  wander!  Let 
me  see,  I  was  talking  about  that 
palette  of  Edith's. 

She  was  an  orphan,  and  lived  with 
a  maiden  aunt  in  the  college  yard. 
Such  eyes!  That  sketch  of  mine 
which  hangs  by  the  tireplace  does 
not  come  within  a  thousand  miles 
of  their  sparlding  depth.  And  her 
brown  hair  deftly  twined  over  her 
forehead.  I  fancy  I  can  see  her  now, 
bending  over  her  work  and  strug- 
gling at  it  in  her  childish  desjjc  ration. 

'  I  shall  nevtr  be  able  to  draw 
any  better,'  she  said,  her  ]>retty  lips 
pouting,  and  a  tear  trickiiug  down 
her  fair  cheek  ;  '  but  I  really  think 
I  have  an  eye  lor  colour.' 

'  An  eye  for  colour !'  I  remember 
saying  to  myself;  'aneje  for  love — 
an  eye  to  make  a  man  happy  all  his' 
days.' 

But  I  was  a  young  fellow  then, 
susceptible  and  enthusiastic,  and  I 


fell  in  love  with  Edith  Yiner  almost 
the  first  moment  I  saw  hi  r. 

'And  I  am  deteiniiiiod  I  will  do 
something;  I  feel  that  Ico'ild  m:ike 
such  a  picture  if  I  only  knew  how 
to  convey  my  own  ideas  and  im- 
pressions.' 

'  Make  a  picture !  Yes,  as  pretty 
a  one  as  ever  adorned  canvas,'  I 
said,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

'Now  yon  arc  laughing  at  me,' 
she  said,  sadly,  not  taking  my  com- 
pliment, nor  noticing  tlie  flush  on 
my  face.  '  Everybody  laughs  at  me. 
Aunt  calls  me  stupid,  and  the  girls 
in  the  class  nudge  each  o'her  and 
titter  at  what  they  call  my  impos- 
sible trees  and  eccentric  ammals.' 

'  I  was  not  laughing,  I  assure  j  on. 
Miss  Yiner,'  I  said,  serious-ly;  'I 
should  be  the  last  to  laugh  at  you, 
I  who  admire  you  1:0  much,  and ' 

She  had  remained  behiud  after 
the  class  had  broken  up,  and  her 
sweet,  confiding  manner  to  me  was 
irresistible.  I  tear  I  forgot  my  posi- 
tion as  tutor  entir(  ly.  1  stammered 
out  some  hurried,  silly  declaration 
of  love,  and  felt  as  if  my  very  exist- 
ence depended  upon  tlie  effect  it 
would  make.  I  cm  remember  the 
sensation  now,  grey  old  bachelor  as 
I  am;  and  I  have  not  furg<jtten  the 
awful  feeling  of  chagrin  and  disap- 
pointment at  tho  ringing  laugh 
which  greeted  my  outburst  of  ro- 
mance. 

'Why,  what  a  silly  young  man 
you  must  be,  Mr.  Westwood  !  It  is 
really  too  absui-d.  Here  am  I 
anxious  that  you  should  teach  me 
how  to  paint,  and  you  actually  begin 
to  talk  about  love,  like  Don  Quixote, 
or  a  person  in  a  play.' 

And  the  lively,  arch,  round,  sup- 
ple, bright-eyed  £;irl  laughed  again 
with  intense  amusement.  I  was 
piqued;  she  had  made  me  look 
foolish ;  she  had  ridiculed  my  ten- 
derest  hopes.  I  had  pictured  some- 
thing quite  different  to  this,  and  hail 
seen  myself,  by  her  desire,  suing  for 
her  hand  at  the  feet  of  that  old 
griffin,  her  aunt,  in  the  cathedral 
Close. 

'  Now  don't  be  so  silly  any  more, 
Mr.  Westwood,  and  I  will  ])roiniso 
never  to  mention  what  has  occurred. 
It  is  too  ab.surd,  you  know.' 

'  Well,  perhaps  it  is,'  I  said,  witli- 

£    2 


S/iadoics  in  Outltiic. 


out  nrnlcrstandinp;  licr.  but  willi  nn 
intcnso  ecnso  of  being  absui'dly 
foolisli. 

'Tlu're,'  sho  snid,  passinp:  from 
the  suliject  with  the  suprciiKst  in- 
difft  n  iicc,  '  plcaso  to  lo  )k  at  that, 
and  tell  nio  if  \on  tliiiik  I  shall  ever 
paint,  and  will  yon  teach  mo?  I 
have  asked  aunt,  aiid  she  is  wilh'ng 
to  fit  me  np  a  studio  of  my  own.' 

From  Uneath  her  cloak  she  pro- 
duced a  b)t  of  oil  colour— a  piol 
reflecting  the  drooping  branclus  of 
a  biecli  trio.  It  was  an  autumn 
sketcli.full  ofroufrh  unstudied  effects 
of  lif^ht  and  t-liadc  that  for  the  mo- 
mciit  astoiii.-hed  me  mightily.  There 
was  evidmcc  of  the  amateur;  but 
the  vigour,  the  rlcpth  of  tone  of 
the  unstudied  touches  were  almost 
startling. 

'This  is  yours?"  I  paid,  coldly. 

'  Yes,'  .she  said,  bending  her  head, 
and  looking  confused. 

'  ]t  is  very  clever ;  you  will  paint,' 
I  faiil. 

'  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Llr. 
■\Vestwood,'  she  saiil,  looking  up 
with  great  carne.«-tness.  'I  wms 
afraid  yoii  would  laimh  at  it;  aunt 
called  it  a  red  and  yellow  daub.' 

Here  is  her  secret,  then,  I  thoueht. 
Her  gem'ns  has  made  itself  manifest 
to  her :  she  is  uuder  its  per.si.steut 
influence. 

'  I  would  give  the  world  to  paint. 
I  iV'U  succeed,  and  you  must  help 
me.' 

I  did  help  her,  during  many  a 
happy,  happy  hour,  in  that  studio 
OTcrlookir'g  the  river,  ai:d  in  the 
dear  old  Greta  woods,  and  on  the 
grand  T'csdalo  moors.  That  bit 
beneath  Tito  by  the  fireplace  is  a 
study  she  made  under  my  eye  iu 
the  beil  of  tlic  Tees.  Kotice  the 
rock  down  beneath  the  waiter,  the 
liquid-ainbcr  stream,  which  Sir 
Walter  Scott  sung  about.  Some- 
thing like  colour,  that. 

In  less  than  twelve  montlr^  she 
painl(d  fir  better  than  her  tutor, 
who  l>eforo  lialf  that  time  had  pas.'^ed 
was  her^luvc  iu  cver\  thing.  I  have 
Fat  and  watched  Ik  r,  aid  loved  her 
like  a  young  fellow  can  love,  and 
she  knew  it.  15ut  if  ever  tlure  was 
the  faintest  altemi)t  at  poitite<l  ho- 
mage tm  my  i)art,  she  would  ))ooli- 
poob  the  whole  thing  with  an  indif- 


ference to  my  feelings  wliich  often 
struck  nic  as  heartless  in  the  ex- 
trciue  S)inetiuies  I  went  liome 
lia'f  mad  with  rngoand  wounded 
pride,  and  determined  to  have  tiu! 
1»lace  for  evi r ;  bid.  morning  hroupht 
hope,  and  loi'ging  to  see  Edith, 
longing  to  lie  at  her  f-ido,  to  hear 
her  speak,  ay,  if  only  to  wince  at 
her  cynical  lauph,  and  her  oft- 
repeated  sa^ing, that  'love  was  the 
preitest  nonsen.se  sho  had  ever 
lieard  of— painting  the  grandest  of 
the  arts.* 

I  never  could  comprehend  her. 
By  dcerrees  I  came  to  think  of  her  in 
tlie  liLiht  of  a  sort  of  intellectual 
Undine,  before  the  human  soul  tem- 
pered the  waywardness  of  the  fairy. 
She  seemed  to  pos.'css  everything 
that  makes  woman  lovely  and  lov- 
a'>le,  but  the  one  thing  above  all 
others  most  essential— a  woman's 
heart. 

One  morning  I  received  a  note 
from  her  aunt,  in  which  I  was  in- 
formed that  the  lessons  mu^t  cease, 
as  Miss  Viiier  was  going  to  leave  the 
northern  city. 

I  hurried  to  the  house,  and  met 
on  the  doorstep  a  hig,  moustached, 
dark  fellow.  I  asked  f  ir  Miss  Viner, 
as  usual.  She  came  ruimim;  down 
stairs;  and  at  ln-r  call  of  '  Edward  ! 
Tvhvard,  dear!'  the  gentleman 
turned  round  and  followed  her  into 
the  drawing-room. 

'Come  in,  Mr.  Wostwood  ;  pray 
crime  in,'  she  said.  '  Let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  Captain  Howanl,  of  the 
Loinbiiy  Artillery.  Mr.  Westwood 
—  Ciiptain  Pb)ward.' 

Wo  bowed  slillly  to  each  olher, 
and  I  looked  for  an  explanation. 

'  I  see  you  arc  })uzzle(l,  Mr.  U  cst- 
Wiiod.  To-morro'.v  Cfiptam  Howard 
is  to  l)C  my  husband,  and  we  leave 
Jiere  '''i  routi-  for  India  the  next  day.' 

I  shall  nf)t  attempt  to  (kscrilKJ  my 
feelings;  I  fear  they  were  made 
very  apparent  at  the  time.  Anger 
and  coiitemi)t  liad,  surely,  some 
share  in  the  exjircssion  of  my  ])oor 
stupid  face  on  that  occa>ion  ;  Vnit  I 
could  only  see  cool  indillerenco  on 
Edith's. 

I  turned  to  go  away,  but  Mi.ss 
Viner  prevented  mc. 

'  Ili.re,'  she  saiil,  'is  a  little  j)re- 
seut  before  I  go.    I  hope  you  will 


Shadows  in  Outline. 


53 


treasure  it— my  palette.  I  shall 
never  paint  again.' 

There  was  sometliing  peculiarly 
sad  iu  the  tone  of  voice  in  which 
slie  said  '  I  sliall  never  paint  again.' 

The  next  day  slie  had  left  tliu  old 
city  with  htr  husl)and.  How  I 
■wished  myself  a  l)oy  again,  painting 
puppets  iu  that  little  l)ack  room 
in  the  western  city !  I  have 
painted  many  a  one  since,  for  that 
matter. 

By  the  way,  I  have  lately  learnt 
that  when  Miss  Jinks  died,  tlio 
Chalkses  purchas^ed  the  '  Gallery  of 
Arts,'  and  combined  tiie  two  es-ta- 
blishments.  How  little  we  know  who 
will  step  into  our  shoes  when  wo 
are  gone!  Perhaps  our  greatest 
enemy  may  quietly  seat  himself  in 
our  own  chair  in  the  favouritti  lire- 
side  corner.  Thank  heaven!  science 
cannot  penetrate  the  future.  We 
look  upon  the  tangled  welt  as  we 
spin  it ;  but  we  kno  >v  nothing  of  the 
lines,  and  curves,  and  broken  threads 
to  come. 

m. 

EVENING. 

A  jilted  old  bachelor,  am  I? 
Well,  if  you  like,  that  is  my  cha- 
racter. And  I  am  f-iliy  enough  to 
hang  on  to  tlie  garment  of  memory, 
and  make  a  fool  of  m\self  over  an 
old  palette  that  belonged  to  a  school- 
girl. 

I  often  wondered  if  she  saw  the 
notices  of  my  works  in  the  papers. 
Of  courte  she  did.  Tliey  got  all 
the  journals  at  Bombay.  Hard 
work  is  a  good  thing  when  you  are 
in  trouble.  Some  fellows  labour 
away  on  claret;  some  work,  as  they 
say,  on  beer  only ;  some  on  a  dry 
pipe.  I  worked  on  a  dry,  heart- 
breaking sorrow.  I  had  tilled  my 
very  soul  with  one  face;  and,  all  at 
once,  the  image  was  not  only  gone 
for  ever,  bat  I  had  discovered  its 
utter  worthlessness. 

Edith  was  to  me  a  narrow,  selfish, 
heartless  woman ;  a  syren,  who  had 
tempted  me  to  wreck  and  ruin.  My 
soul  had  yearned  t  >  her,  not  only  in 
love,  but  in  admiration.  Slie  was  a 
gv-niuri,  born  with  a  specialty  for  art. 
tSlie  was  the  siiblimu  thing  which 
seemed  all  at  once  to  spring  up  oat 


of  a  ridiculous  past.  All  ray  vague 
romantic  passions  encircled  licr,  and 
I  loved  her  like — well,  like  an  arti.^t 
who  is  young  and  poor  will  love. 

And  I  could  not  \ni\p  treasuring 
that  palette  for  the  sake  of  our 
happy  (lays,  and  in  memory  of  that 
one  sad  look  which  came  into  her 
eyes  and  voice  at  parting.  Did  she 
really  regret  her  choice?  Cimld  she 
have  been  unduly  influetice  i  ?  Hud 
she  any  choice  in  the  matter? 

Many  a  long  year  afterwards, 
when  I  had  made  my  mark,  ami  got 
beyond  Tanily,  the  dealer  (i)erhaps 
you  remember  his  place  behind  the 
HaymarketV),  a  young  lady  called 
up  n  me.  There  was  a  dark  old 
Indian  woman  with  her,  who  curt- 
sied very  low. 

'Mr.  Westwood,  I  believe,'  said 
the  young  lady,  a  fine  well-grown 
woman  of  about  twenty,  and  dressed 
in  deep  mourning. 

'  Yes,'  I  said,  offering  a  seat. 

'  I\Iy  name  is  Howard,'  she  said. 

*  I  have  recently  arrived  from  Bom- 
bay.' 

I  felt  my  heart  beating  strangely, 
and  the  blood  rushing  int)  mvbtupid 
old  face.  1  could  seethe  likeness  to 
Edith;  it  was  particularly  notice- 
able in  the  full  grey  eyes. 

'  My  mother  said  I  was  to  tell 
you ' 

'Is  she  still  living?'  I  ventured 
to  ask,  for  the  suspense  was  awful. 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  as  the  said, 

*  I  am  an  orphan.' 

Something  brought  the  little 
palette  to  my  mind,  and  its  poor 
faded  patches  of  colour,  and  I  tLiink 
there  were  tears  in  my  own  eyes 
too. 

'I  was  to  give  you  this  packet, 
and  tell  you  that  I  was  christened 
Edith  Westwood.' 

'God  bless  you!'  I  exclaimed; 
and  she  came  and  nestled  in  the 
trembling  old  arms  which  I 
stretched  towards  her. 

She  knew  the  story  of  my  life. 

Edith  Yiner  had  really  loved  the 
poor  painter.  (How  all  the  sunshine 
of  the  northern  city  came  i^'ack  to 
me  in  a  moment!)  But  she  had 
been  engaged  to  Capt.  Howard 
before  she  saw  me— engaj;ed  almost 
from  childhood,  and  their  hands  had 


54 


SJintloics  in  Outline. 


l)Oon  joinod  at  licr  father's  bedsido 
wlien  lio  iHy  tlvinp. 

Slie  had  st<(Ii'(l  lior  heart  to  her 
fiite;  hut  wliil!-t  slio  was  free  my 
stcit'ty  had  a  faseiiiation  for  her 
whicli  she  could  not  overcoino.  At 
hist  she  strove  to  make  lue  hato 
hor  ;  nnd  that  moniiii^'s  encounter 
wh(n  hist  I  saw  her  was  to  pivo 
the  linil  Mow  to  my  likinp.  She 
nearly  l-mke  licr  own  heart  in  deal- 
ing it,  1  lilt  the  die  was  cast. 

True  to  litr  last  words,  she  had 
never  painted  again.  Alas!  slio, 
too,  had  known  no  hnppiness.  Her 
hushand,  I  gleaned  afterwards,  in 
quiet  interviews  with  the  daugliter, 
was  a  gay,  scHi>h  fellow,  who  met 
with  a  dishonourable  death. 

So  onr  two  lives  were  blighted ; 
and  now  you  understand  what  a 
big  Foriow  it  was  which  I  had  been 
doing  liattic  with  by  hard  work.  And 
if  you  like  to  call  mo  a  jilted  old 
bachelor,  yon  may  ;  but  I  still  cling 
to  tliut  /It  lit  jialetto  and  the  memo- 
ries that  surround  it. 

In  the  hands  of  Fate  we  are 
all  as  nnich  ))uppets  as  were  those 
alvsurd  wax  iigures  in  the  hands  of 
Mi.'js  Jinks,  whose  idols  fell  into  the 
possession  of  her  deadliest  foes. 

Edith  Westwood  Howard  was  my 
ward,  Mes^  her  heart!  And  slio 
appeared  like  an  aiigi  1  at  my  fire- 
side for  a  few  short  month.s.  She  is 
Mrs.  Lloyd  Craven  now,  and  a 
motlier  too;  and  her  childnn  call 
nio  great  grandpa  in  fun,  laugh 
at    my    wheel  -  chair,  and    call    it 


great -grand  pa's    little    perambula- 
tor. 

Have  not  tho  ridiculous  and  the 
PubliiMe  licen  stniugfly  mixed  up  in 
my  life?  Jjast  night  I  dreamt  1  was 
one  of  the  Tick  Street  puppets, 
very  white  and  very  cold,  with  an 
old  palette  by  my  side  with  fadeil 
spots  of  yello'V  and  red  and  brown 
upon  it.  And  when  1  awoke  I  was 
sitting  in  my  pciaiubulator,  as  tho 
chililren  call  it,  with  several  ])eoplo 
round  me;  and  someboiiy  said, '  Ho 
is  a  very  old  mnn,'  anil  another  said, 
'  Ah,  hell  never  paint  any  more.' 

And  then  I  was  in  the  northern 
city  again,  wdiere  i^lic  said  she 
would  never  paiid  again.  It  seemed 
as  if  memory  was  kind  to  me,  and 
I  got  up  and  went  to  my  room, 
and  asked  for  her  palette;  and  there 
I  sit  in  the  evenim^s,  and  suioke  and 
chat  with  Lloyd  Craven,  who  is  at 
the  top  of  the  tree,  they  say.  lie  is 
engaged  ujion  a  great  ])icture  now, 
callcil  '  Evtning.'  There  is  a  bit  of 
shingly  river  in  it,  an  old  man,  a 
grey  cathedral  towir  amongst  some 
trees,  and  the  f-un  is  sitting  in  tho 
west.  It  is  pleasant  to  talk  to 
Craven  about  the  twilight  and  tho 
evening,  and  I  want  him  to  paint 
an  unused  ]ialetto  by  the  side  of 
tho  old  man,  and  an  easel  with  a 
half-finished  ]iicture  upon  it;  then 
Edith,  his  wile,  ))ee|is  in  and  laughs 
at  us,  and  we  nod  at  her  and  go  on 
smoking;  and  so  the  evening  ])as.ses, 
and  tho  long  dark  night  comes 
on. 


n 


.[^ 


Drawn  l>v  M.  l.ll.ii  K.lw.ir.l- 


ONLY    A    YEAR    AGO. 


^      — f^HQ^tCX 


[See  the  I'o.m. 


es 


ONLY  A  TEAR  AGO. 

ONLY  a  year  ago,  yon  say ! 
llow  wearily  time  goes  by, 
With  a  sigli  at  the  Idrth  of  every  clay. 

And  a  tear  of  every  sigh  ! 
The  hill-top  peeps  from  clouds  of  mist. 

The  fields  forget  the  snow, 
The  garden  ^ings  where  we  have  kissed, 
And  only  a  year  ago. 

Only  a  year  ago,— one  week 

From  the  dust  of  the  ytar  ho  kept: 
Uc  said  tint  the  roses  left  my  cheek 

Wlien  my  hand  to  his  fingers  crept. 
The  time  was  brief,  but  the  love  was  long- 

At  leas^t  he  told  rae  so 
In  the  f  irewell  notes  of  the  farewell  song 

He  sang  me  a  year  ago. 


Song. 

Let  lis  clipg  to  love,  and  never 
From  our  hearts  its  fingers  sever. 
Though  the  cry  rings  on  for  ever, 

Loved  and  lost,  loved  and  lost : 
Summer's  rain  and  winters  frost ; 
Sigh  of  days  we've  loved  and  lost. 

Grief  too  deep  for  human  feeling 
Happy  hearts  are  oft  concealing; 
Foi  they  hear  the  echoes  stealing, 

Loved  and  lost,  loved  and  lost. 
Whea  on  cruel  seas  we're  tost, 
Then  our  cry  is  loved  and  lost. 

Eyes  arc  weary  soon  of  weeping. 
And  we're  longing  for  the  sleeping. 
But  the  cry  is  ever  creeping. 

Loved  and  lost,  loved  and  lest. 
Wait  the  melting  of  the  frost 
All  who  whisper,  loved  and  lost 

There's  a  ray  of  sunlight  gleaming ; 
Lake-blue  eyes,  once  sad,  are  beaming ; 
Lefs  awaken  from  our  dreaming. 

Loved  and  lost,  loved  and  lost: 
Life  was  pitiless  at  most 
When  its  joys  were  loved  and  lost ! 

To  the  spar  we're  wildly  clinging. 
Which  the  ocean — love,  is  bringing: 
On  the  shore  are  voices  singing 

Never  lost,  never  lost : 
On  the  waves  our  bark  was  tost ; 
Oft  in  danger— never  lost ! 


Beautiful  Miss  Johnson. 

Only  ft  year  ngo,  I  strove 

To  live  wlu-n  ho  left  my  sipht ; 
His  eyes  the  dreamy  enchantment  wove, 

I  lost  himself  in  the  nipht. 
I  lived  on  hope,  l)iit  ho  left  me  bravo, 

And  ho  had  a  heart  to  show: 
The  loses  died  witli  the  love  ho  gave 

Together  a  year  ago. 

Only  a  year  ago,  yon  say; 

He's  Miiiriied,  1  hear,  since  then: 
'Tia  a  cai)itid  thing  to  have  one's  way. 

As  well  for  women  as  men  ! 
Shall  I  jnst  whisper  into  her  car 

And  tell  her  all  I  Imow? 
Ill  ke( p  the  secret,  don't  you  fear. 

Entrusted  a  year  ago! 

c.  w.  s. 


BEAUTIFUL    MISS   JOHNSON. 
CI)c  Cvprricncrsi  of  a  (CuaiHsmait. 


CHAPTER  I. 


HOW  did  yon  come,  my  dear?' 
This  question  was  addressed 
hy  my  'Aunt  Georgie'  (a  venerable 
relative,  over  whoso  graceful  head 
some  two-and-tw  nty  summers 
might  have  waxidaiid  waned— and 
how  chanuing  a  joiing  aunt  is,  by- 
theby)  to  a  pin^^ularly  beautiful 
girl  in  full  evening  toilette,  whom 
the  butler  had  just  announced  as 
above. 

I  beg  pardon  for  the  slip — not 
ijiiite  as  aliove.  Tho  respectal)lo 
dignitary  in  whose  f-ervice  my  uncle, 
tlie  Hon.  and  Itev.  Reginald  Gwynne, 
was  then  living,  was  not  so  far  gone 
in  jestheties  as  such  an  enthusiastic 
announcement  on  his  part  might 
lead  the  render  to  iniply. 

'  Miss  Johnson,'  wa.s  all  he  said,  to 
herald  the  appearunee  of  tho  most 
dazzling  vi>ion  that  ever  glanced 
like  a  shooting-star  into  the  quiet 
centre  of  a  faujily  circle,  assembled 
to  do  honour  to  the  guests,  ot  whom 
tlie  iKJiutitul  stranger  was  the  lirst 
to  arrive  — sljunger,  at  least,  (ii<  far 
as  1  was  concerned,  although  evi- 
dently onsutliciintly  intimate  terms 
with  '  Aunt  Georgie'  herself,  whom 
I  btrongly  suf-i)eclcd  of  treachery  in 


tho  matter,  when  I  Faw  the  mis- 
chievous smile  which  ]ilayed  about 
her  mouth  as  she  advanced  with 
both  hands  extended,  and  as  tho 
question  quoted  above  came  muti- 
lated into  tlireo  sections  by  tho 
heartiness  of  a  feminine  embrace. 

'  How  did'— a  kiss  upon  one  cheek 
— '  you  come'— a  ki.-s  upon  the 
other—'  my  dear?" — a  seal  upon  the 
exquisite  lip^,  which,  when  they 
were  released  from  the  tender  hin- 
drance, i)roceodod  to  scatter  pearls 
as  follows. 

'Just  cantered  over  a  la  Baby 
Blake,  without  oven  the  attendant 
"  gossoon."  1  rode  all  alone  by  my- 
self over  Stonccro?s  Moor,  in  the 
dark,  on  the  l)lack  mare ;  and  1  shall 
ride  back  again  the  same  "gate" 
by  moonlight  to-night— romantic 
enough  even  for  you,  Georgie,  I 
take  it.' 

'  Georgie!'  There  had  been  trea- 
chery, tlien,  as  I  hail  suspect<'d,  on 
tho  ])art  of '  my  aunt.'  J  could  now 
account,  ami  account  very  satisfac- 
torily, as  tar  as  I  was  concerneil,  for 
tjie  roguish  twinkle  which  I  ha^l 
detected  in  tho  (yo  of  that  sedate 
matron    tho    Hon.    Mrs.    Reginald 


Beaut  if  al  Miss  Johnson. 


Gwynno,  as  she  had  gratuitously  in- 
formed mc  that  '  tlicro  was  nothing 
very  sirikinjij  iu  the  beauty  hue'  in 
the  quiet  ueighbourhood  which  her 
dutiful  nephew  was  then  introduced 
to  for  the  first  time— nothing,  at 
least,  that  'a  London  swell,'  as  she 
saucily  dubbed  me,  *  would  care  to 
look  at  twice.'  'You  are  so  blase', 
you  know,  my  dear,'  she  had  gone 
on  to  say, '  and  we  are  all  so  much 
too  slow  for  you,  down  here  at 
Tower  Moor.' 

I  saw  througli  it  all.  It  was  an 
attempt  at  revenge  on  the  part  of ' 
my  spriteish  aunt,  for  some  imper- 
tinent remarks  which  I  had  mule 
with  regard  to  the  excitement  wliich 
pervaded  the  establishment,  from 
attic  to  cellar,  on  the  score  of  '  the 
party.'  So  Aunt  Georgie  herself  in- 
sisted upon  calling  the  circle  of 
friends  aud  neighbours  to  be  assem- 
bled at  Tower  Moor  rectory  on  a 
certain  day,  in  honour  of  its  be'ng 
the  anniversary  of  the  one  in  which 
she  came  home  to  it  as  mistress  and 
bride. 

The  fact  of  so  juvenile  an  aunt  as 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  possess  is 
thus  explained. 

My  good  uncle  Reginald  had 
married  at  the  mature  (and  to  me 
venerable)  age  of  forty,  the  orphaned 
daughter  of  an  old  college  friend, 
who,  after  bringing  up  his  only 
»ihild  in  every  luxury,  had  died ; 
leaving  her  in  distressed  circum- 
stances to  the  care  of  a  world  whose 
tender  mercies,  in  a  case  of  such  ex- 
ceiDtionable  innocence  and  beauty, 
would  i^rolably  have  been  more 
cruel  than  its  coldest  indifference  or 
neglect. 

It  was  to  this  seemingly  adverse 
crisis  of  circumstance  that  my 
Aunt  Georgie  was  indebted  for  the 
happiness  of  her  life.  Uncle  Ee- 
ginald,  staid  and  reverend  as  he 
was,  was  the  only  man  that  the 
bright-faced,  light-hearted  girl  had 
ever  loved;  but  this  fact  would 
never  have  dawned  upon  the  per- 
ception of  that  true-hearted  gentle- 
man himself,  but  for  the  passionate 
burst  of  tears  with  which  she  re- 
jected his  purposely-made  unim- 
passioned  proposal,  and  but  for  the 
heartbreaking  sob  which  accom- 
panied the  words,  '  You  are  taking 


me  out  of  pity,  and  I  have  nothing 
left  but  you.  If  you  hal  only  loved 
me,  Reginald,  how  happy  we  might 
have  been!' 

From  that  moment  they  under- 
stood one  another,  and  tlie  happiest 
menage,  into  the  domestic}  core  of 
which  it  has  been  my  fa'o  to  pene- 
trate, is  that  over  wiiieli  Aunt 
Georgie  presides  (with  a  .strand  or 
two  of  silver  now  aul!d^t  the  nut- 
brown  tresses  wliich  aic  as  abun- 
dant as  ever)  amid  the  lielovcd  sur- 
roundings of  her  cheri.'^hed  home. 
Those  silver  threads-  fire  imleed  her 
proudest  boast.  '  Wh  )  dare  say 
now  that  I  am  young  enough  for 
my  husband's  daughter?'  she  exult- 
iugly  asks :  '  why,  Ecgiuald  has  not 
a  grey  hair.' 

She  keeps  to  herself  the  fact,  of 
which  she  must  be  well  aware,  that 
the  snow-blo<soms  scattered  upon 
her  own  head  are  but  the  white 
angel-watchers  ever  standing  about 
a  little  grave,  wdiich  tue  sun  kisses 
and  the  dew  waters  ia  the  quiet  old 
churchyard  at  Tower  Motir. 

I  am  aware  that  I  have  digressed, 
but  Aunt  Georgie  i.s  worthy  of  a 
digression;  and  thinking  of  her 
helps  me  to  recall  more  vividly  to 
mind  the  fun  that  sparkled  in  her 
cloudless  eyes  that  niiiht,  as  she 
took  in  with  a  rapid  sidc-glance  the 
effect  which  the  appeaiauce  of  so 
dazzling  a  vision  had  male  upon 
the  blase  'London  swell,'  who  had 
derided  the  idea  of  what  she  had 
been  pleased  to  call '  a  parly,'  in  the 
wilds  other  North  Devon  home. 

'Eode!'  she  exclaimed,  in  answer 
to  her  tiriend  Miss  Johnson's  start- 
ling assertion  with  regard  to  her 
means  of  transit  across  the  wild 
moor,  with  the  dangei's  and  difficul- 
ties of  which  I,  as  a  Londoner,  had 
made  myself  well  acquainted  before 
trusting  myself  to  explore  it  by  day- 
hght — 'rode,  child,  wi  at  can  you 
mean?  "Why,  you  look  as  if  you 
had  just  come  out  of  a  bandbox, 
does  she  not,  Harry?'  and  as  my 
Aunt  Georgie  appealed  to  me  thus 
personally  for  confirmation  of  her 
verdict,  she  touched  lovingly  with 
her  hand  the  folds  of  the  rich  white 
satin,  which  draped  the  faultless 
form  in  pure  classical  folds,  and 
which  certainly  looked  guiltless  of 


68 


Beattfiful  Miss  Johnson, 


tho  wild  flight  across  Stonecross 
Mt>or,  of  wliic'Ii  Miss  Johnson  had 
lanpliintrly  l)')ft>t(.il. 

I  could  only  lx)\v,  in  answer  to 
my  aiuit  s  nppoal,  tor  the  yonnt? 
lady  took  iho  words  tliat  I  was 
alx)ut  to  iitlor  out  of  my  month,  as 
she  rattled  on. 

'  You  d>>M't  sup]x>se  that  I  rodo 
in  wliite  ^atiM  ovt  r  the  moor,  you 
unsophisticated  darling?  I  sent 
"my  thinj;-;  "  as  the  maids  say,  on 
an  hour  t'efore,  mid  tliere  I  found 
them  all  rca>ly  laid  out,  and  a  tiro 
lighted  in  the  spare  room  for  me  to 
dress  by,  ly  that  excel  lent  woman, 
Mrs.  Simpson,  whom  I  have  deeply 
offeiidtd  now,  I  ftar.  and  perhaps 
made  an  enemy  tor  lite.' 

'  How  d.d  you  manage  that,  my 
dear  ?' 

'  Simply  by  declining  to  let  her 
have  any  finger  in  the  pie  of  my 
"back  hair,"'  us  she  is  ))leased  to 
call  it.  ib;avcn  fortlnd!  I  said; 
make  your  own  mistress  as  great  an 
outrage  agnin.^t  nature  as  you  like 
(as  great  aCJuy,  you  know,  I  should 
have  said  to  yo"),  but  keep  your 
sacrihgions  hand-;  off  m}/  back  hair 
if  you  please.  She  is  now  most 
probably  solacing  her  wounded 
feelings  l)y  proclaiming  to  all  whom 
it  might  concern  Itelow  stairs,  that 
the  strange  >oniig  lady  irears  a  wifj. 
Perhaps  I  do.'  midetl  this  modern 
Di  Vernon,  snd.ieiily  fhtshing  her 
lino  eyes  for  the  fiiht  time  upon  me, 
'  but  it  is  a  very  good  one,  is  it  not, 
]\Ir.  Gwynne?' 

'  Iniini'a'ile!'  I  answered,  without, 
as  I  felt,  that  nflamh  and  self-po.s- 
session,  whi  h  I  had  been  so  confi- 
dent of  f  xhib.ting  Ijeforo  the  be- 
nighted com. try  lolk,  whom  I  had 
l)cen  taught  fo  Inlieve  were,  as  a 
class,  deficient  in  those  Bhining  and 
town-bred  <|ual  ties. 

'An  iiiim  taMe  imitation,*  Miss 
John'^on  answer-  d  piickly  ;  '  but  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  it  does  not 
mat'.-h.' 

'  Match!  what  with?'  askrd  Aunt 
Gcorgie,  evidently  preatly  amuced 
with  the  o  Idities  of  tins  wild  girl  of 
the  woods,  a.s  slie  chose  to  call  her, 
although  fioin  th»f  moment  in  which 
I  first  felt  a»  a  dit-advantage  with 
regard  to  a^ldie.ss  of  manner,  and 
theea«eof  good  lueeding,  with  the 


beautiful  stranger,  T  put  it  down  as 
a  fact  in  my  own  mind  that  bhewas 
not  country  bred. 

'  Why,  with  my  oycs,  to  ho  sure  ; 
what  else  ought  a  woman's  hair  to 
go  with,  if  not  with  her  own  eyes, 
I\Irs.  Gcorgie?' 

'  A  contrast  is  sometimes  better 
than  a  match,'  was  the  ready  reply. 
'  W  hat  makes  people  look  twice  at 
you,  is  the  contrast  of  your  black 
eyes  with  your  flaxen  wig :  it  is  a 
little  out  of  the  common,  you  know, 
that's  all.' 

'  Well,  as  long  as  I  am  not  con- 
demned to  wear  my  yellow  locks, 
paddtd  out  with  dead  men's  hair, 
or  with  a  knotted  net  strained 
tightly  over  it,  giving  it  the  appear- 
ance of  the  inflated  ball  that  I  used 
to  j)lay  with  in  my  early  cliildliood, 
I  am  content,'  Miss  Johnson  re- 
torted, shaking  the  lovely  head  as 
she  did  so,  crowned  with  the  silky 
locks  of  pale  gold,— which  did,  in- 
deed, ofTer  a  remarkable  contrast  to 
the  dark,  gazelle-like  eyes,  and  which 
were  arranged  with  a  studied  neg- 
ligence, or,  as  Mrs.  Simpson  criti- 
cally expressed  it,  'no  how.' 

'  You  need  not  be  so  severe,  Nelly,' 
said  my  aunt,  pretending  to  be  of- 
fenilcd,  and  whose  own  thick  auburn 
tresses  did  certainly  seem  to  rebel 
against  the  confinement  of  tho 
gold  net  in  which  Mrs.  Simpson's 
nimble  fingers  had  imiu-isoned 
them  that  night.  '  A  coiffure  a  la 
gooscKrry-bush  would  not  become 
ever \  body  as  it  does  you.' 

'  The  language  is  getting  deci- 
dedly personal  and  un])arliamen- 
tary'  and  Mr.  Gwynne  looks  quite 
scandalized  at  our  naughty  beha- 
viour. Here  are  your  guests  arriv- 
ing, so  do  let  us  bo  i)roper,  Mrs. 
Gwynne,*  ^liss  Johnson  hero  re- 
marked, putting  me  down  again,  in 
that  perfectly  civil  yet  ])rofoundly 
humil  ating  manner,  at  which  only 
a  well-lired  woman  can  arrive;  a 
proceeding  which  amused  my  mis- 
chievous aunt  to  su(di  an  extent, 
that  she  had  some  difliculty  in  com- 
posing her  features  into  tho  gravity 
anil  decorum  cxpecteil  from  tho 
mistress  ot  the  house,  by  the  grave 
country  srpiircs  and  dames,  who  now 
l>epan  to  arrive  at  the  rectory;  in 
some  cases  with  strings  of  daugh- 


Beautiful  3Iiss  Johnson. 


59 


ters  or  holihle-fTe-hoy  sons  in  their 
wake,  following  them  in  rotation 
like  a  striiip;  of  ponies  to  a  fair. 

'  The  inirty,'  indeed,  as  my  aunt 
called  it,  m  lierdear  unso})histicated 
countiy  way,  was,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  '  beaiitilnl  Miss  Johnson,' 
tame  and  Jiumdrum  enough,  as 
parties  in  which  the  bumpkin  ele- 
ment predominates  (I  maintain  it 
in  spite  of  Aunt  Georgie's  frown)  are 
apt  to  be. 

There  were  the  standing  dishes  of 
Sir  John  and  Lady  Bull,  and  Squire 
and  LIrs  Applegarde,  with  tlie 
Masters  and  Misses  Bull, and  the  bud- 
ding beauty  apple-blossom  with  her 
innocent  airs  and  graces,  and  the  bat- 
tery of  her  laughing  blue  eyes, 
directed  full  at  the  promising  young 
calf,  the  hopeful  scion  of  the  house 
of  Bull.  Tijen  there  was  the  curate 
from  the  next  parish  (looking  much 
more  hungry  and  careworn  than 
the  curate  of  my  uncle's  parish 
would  have  looked,  had  he  pos- 
sessessed  so  clieap  a  luxury),  and 
the  curate's  wife,  and  the  curate's 
sister,  whose  home-made  gowns 
proved  higlily  provocative  of  mirth 
on  the  part  of  the  Misses  Bull,  and 
the  beauty  apple-blossom,  who  set- 
tled it  with  many  shrugs  and  giggles 
between  them,  that  they  must  have 
been  fashioned  in  the  •  year  one.' 

'  And  did  jou  ever  see  any  one's 
hair  done  such  a  figure,  my  dear  ?' 
asked  the  latter  of  the  two  grand 
young  ladies,  whom  this  touch  of 
ill-nature  had  made  *  kin '  with  the 
beauty  apple-blossom  for  the  nonce, 
whom  they,  as  a  general  rule,  rather 
affected  to  despise. 

It  was  a  strange  voice  which  an- 
swered the  question  after  the  Irish 
fashion,  by  asking  another  in  a  tone 
of  abrupt  and  rather  cynical  in- 
quiry.    '  As  whose?' 

'Why,  as  Mrs.  Suckling's  to  be 
sure.  But  la !  Miss  Johnson,  how 
you  do  make  one  jump !' 

'  If  you,  or  I,  had  hair  like  that 
Lucy  Applegarde,  we  could  afford 
to  dress  it  a  la  Suckling,'  returned 
the  young  lady  so  apostrophised ; 
and  the  rebuke  aimed  at  the  ill- 
nature  of  the  self-satisfied  critic 
was  the  more  telling  because  it  was 
made  within  hearing  of  one  or  two 
of  '  the  gentlemen '  (as  Miss  Apple- 


garde would  have  exprpp?od  her- 
self), whom  that  young  lit-be  num- 
bered among  her  adherents. 

'  How  odd  she  is!'  she  contented 
herself  with  murmuring  under  lier 
breath  to  her  two  lato  allies,  who 
having,  however,  witnessed  her  hu- 
miliation and  defeat,  blushed  in  their 
noses,  as  it  was  their  unfortunale 
propensity  to  do  ;  and  wlio,  as  they 
shook  out  their  lace  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, and  folded  tbeir  chvibby 
hands,  in  gloves  too  short  at  the 
wrists,  tried  to  look  stonily  uncon- 
scious of  the  heretical  lemaik. 

They  did  not  particularly  care  to 
make  an  enemy  of '  that  clever  Miss 
Johnson,'  as  the  county  ladies 
called  her.  Her  beauty  they  pro- 
nounced 'overrated;'  but  her  ta- 
lents they  were  all  ready  to  acknow- 
ledge as  of  a  shining  kind.  From 
this  fact  we  may  deduce  another, 
viz.,  that  the  young  laily  whom  they 
thus  described  was  both  clever  and. 
beautiful ;  but  that  lier  beauty  gave 
her  the  gift  of  power  over  the  oppo- 
site sex,  which  is  the  only  gift  that 
one  woman  ever  covets  of  another: 
consequently  their  depreciation  of 
Miss  Johnson's  superlative  charms. 

It  fell  to  my  turn  next  to  be 
startled  oiit  of  a  reverie  into  which 
I  had  fallen — 'an  outrage  against 
society,'  and  a  reflection  upon  my 
'  town  breeding,'  as  Aunt  Georgie 
afterwards  reminded  me,  by  a  sil- 
very whisper  close  to  my  tar,  which 
surprised  me  into  a  blush,  to  the 
eternal  detriment  of  the  boasted 
savoir  faire  of  two-and-twenty:  a 
blush  of  pleasure,  however,  for  it 
said — 

'  Take  me  in  to  dinner,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Gwynne, — it  is  your 
aunt's  particular  request.' 

This  last  clause  was  added  with  a 
little  saucy  inflection  of  the  voice, 
which  confirmed  me  with  regard  to 
the  suspected  conspiracy  between 
my  aunt  and  her  brilliant  guest; 
having  for  its  object  the  defeat  and 
overthrow  of  a  young  disciple  in  the 
nil  admirari  school,  to  be  made  to 
surrender  at  discretion,  under  the 
fire  of  those  basilisk  eyes.  This 
coquettish  assumption  of  authority 
over  me,  a  nephew,  her  own  senior 
by  some  months,  was  one  of  my 
pretty  young  aunt's  most  piquant. 


GO 


Beautiful  Miss  Johnson. 


and,  in  my  eyes,  most  'winuiug  affec- 
tations. 

Till  TO  was  little  fear  of  toy  turn- 
ing rclicl,  iu  tlio  case  in  point.  I 
k'lt  just  asniiu'li  afrai.l  ot  the  sliafts 
of  my  cuni|ianiou's  wit,  and  ot  her 
Bvidtnt  j)aAC'rs  ol  rti)artte,asa  very 
young  man  likes  to  feel,  wiien  tho 
olyect  of  his  ndoration  is  a  year  or 
two  older  than  himself,  and  when 
her  veiy  sniil)s  imply  a  sort  of  pro- 
tecting a|'pio|iriatii»n,  which  arc  as 
Bweet  as  luau-y  to  his  aspiring  soul. 

There  is  a  gr(  at  deal  too  mucli  of 
ridiculiiu>;  solemnity  a'>out  the  rites 
to  be  o' 'Served  at  a  '  dinner  party,' 
especially  when  that  party  happens 
to  be  assemhled  in  the  remote  and 
eavage  wihis  of  a  country,  where  a 
thiek-headeil  baronet  is  a  sort  of 
king,  and  a  worthy  and  honourable 
rector,  like  my  uncle  Keginald, 
greater  than  Wolscy,  on  his  own 
soil. 

If  we  had  been  called  upon  to 
assist  at  tho  awful  celebration  of 
some  Dr'dilical  ceremony,  or  even 
to  pile  the  iug).'ed  altars  with  living 
victinie,  telccted  from  the  centre  of 
our  domes  ic  hearth,  a  stillness  more 
solemn  could  not  have  lallen  ujion 
our  souls  than  followeii  u])()n  the 
sepuloliial  announeenunt  of  the 
sacrificing  \\'\\i.\\  priest,  the  butler, — 
'  Dinner  is  served.' 

My  uncle,  who.-e  duty  lay  c!eir 
before  him,  broke  the  charmed  circle 
of  maidens  and  matrons,  by  going 
off  at  a  hand-gal litp  (as  ho  alwiiys 
did  when  nervous;  with  bustling, 
important,  spectacled  Lady  linll 
upfju  bis  arm.  He  must  have  had 
the  satisOu-tion  of  stamling  like  an 
isolated  k  ng,  checkmated  by  a  vin- 
dictive qiiein,  in  green  velvet  and 
siMictaclc*,  fi>r  full  live  minutes,  at 
tho  h(ad  of  his  own  taMe,  before  tho 
rest  of  the  procession  tiled  slowly  in ; 
ray  Aunt  Georgie  and  the  ]ionderous 
baronet  diiing  it  before  them  like 
a  flock  of  impracticable  sheep. 

Fire, or  no  fire?  was  the  question 
which  now  burst  simultaneously 
from  each  emancipated  male  lij);  and 
as  the  question  implied  a  rajiid 
decisiiin  lietween  tho  cold  of  tho 
arctic  and  the  heat  of  the  cipiatorial 
regions,  there  intervened  in  most 
casts  another  piuso,  before  the  final 
scramble,  winch  left  us   staudrng 


solemnly  standing  in  our  places, 
awaiting  the  rectorial  grace.  To 
one  more  interrui)tion,  however,  wc 
Were  doomed— cause  i  by  the  despe- 
rate transit  of  a  mild  and  shame- 
faced youth  to  a  more  eligible 
position  than  the  one  he  had  chosen 
(peremptorily  force<l  upon  him  by 
the  inevital)le  busvbody,  who  is  an 
institution  at  country  dinner  iiarties), 
and  who,  after  entangling  himself 
ho|)elcssly  in  crinolines, and  coming 
in  \iolent  contact  with  an  indignant 
butler,  who  looked  inclined  to  knock 
him  ilown  with  a  tal)le-napkm,  > 
suddenly  foundered  betsvem  two 
crinolines,  in  his  endeavour  to  ol>ey 
the  ]>omp')Us  injunction  '  Divide  the 
ladies,  my  boy— divide  the  ladies. 
Can't  have  two  laches  sitting  to- 
gether: never  do— never  do.' 

Then  my  uncle,  after  a  furtive 
glance  round  the  t<il)le,  iiroceeiled 
to  ai)ply  the  torch  to  the  funereal 
jiile,  by  the  jironunciation  of  a 
solemn  bles.siug,  which  was  uttered 
in  the  conventional  voice,  which  tho 
most  excellent  and  reverend  of  men 
Ke  fit  to  assume  on  the  celel'ratiou 
of  the  important  religious  ceremony 
of '  dining  out.' 

'  It  always  strikes  me  that  it  is  a 
little  ill-timed.' 

Tiiese  words  were  muttered  by 
my  beautiful  neighbour  in  so  low  a 
voice  that  they  scarcely  seemed  to 
Imj  addressed  to  any  individual  ear; 
but  I  gathered  up  the  pearls 
ea'.'erly,  as  they  slij)i)ed  rather  than 
fell  fiom  her  lii)s,  and  rt])lied — 

'You  mean  what  children  call 
"f-nying  our  grace"  It  is  curious 
that  the  very  sjiine  idea  wa.s  ])assing 
through  my  mind.  I  call  it  con- 
ventionalism—not religion.' 

'  I  BHjipo.-e  few  wouM  dignify  it 
by  that  name.  The  rijv.'^on  1  dislike 
the  custtjm  is,  that  I  think  it  some- 
times savours  of  the  ridiculous.  It 
is  like  another  very  absurd  custom 
men  have— that  of  looking  into 
their  hats  for  a  moment  or  so  when 
they  enter  a  church.  They  think  it 
looks  devout,  but  to  me  it  has  ex- 
actly the  contrary  effect.  I  know  all 
they  think  about  when  they  do  it  is 
when  it  will  1k3  time  for  them  to 
look  out  of  them  again.' 

'  You  ai"e  very  severe,  Miss  John- 
sou.' 


Beautiful  Miss  Johnson. 


CI 


'  No,  I  am  not-,  inclocd  ;  but  I  hato 
shams  ;  niid  in  fuiAtliint.';  to  rlo  witli 
religion  I  lia'o  tlitm  more  tlian  in 
common  Ihings.  Your  nnolc  paid 
grace,  no'.v,  just  as  if  he  thonglit  we 
were  all  naughty  children, not  likely 
to  be  thank lul  for  onr  food.  Not  that 
lip  shams— dear,  cood  man  that  he  is 
—  I  don't  mean  that  tor  an  instant: 
bnt  why  give  the  opportunity  of 
doing  so,  all  about  a  question  of 
meat  and  drirdc  ?  Do  you  suppose 
Sir  John  thought  of  anything  else 
all  the  time  hut  what  was  under  the 
dish-cover  before  him?  Tarbotand 
lobster  sauce,  "  Amen."  Depend 
upon  it,  that  was  Ms  grace,  Mr, 
Gwynne.' 

'  1  don't  doubt  it/  I  replied.  'I 
wonder  how  many  of  us  thought  of 
what  we  were  supposed  to  be  think- 
ing of.' 

'  I  can  tell  you  for  my  own  part 
to  a  nicety.  I  was  wondeiiiig 
whether  Britomart  (that's  the  black 
mare,  you  know)  had  been  tumed 
out  of  the  middle  stall,  to  make 
room  for  tho  e  two  mammoth.s  of 
Sir  John's,  th^t  he  calls  carriage 
horses.  She'll  do  herself,  or  some 
one  else,  a  mischief,  if  she  is  ovt  r- 
crowded  or  fidgeted,  and  there's  no 
trusting  to  grooms.' 

'Shall  I  send  to  inquire?' 

'  Oh,  no  !  pray  don't ;  it  would, 
look  like  impertiuence.  Britomart, 
like  her  namesake,  can  take  care  of 
herself.' 

'  She  is  higli-couraged,  I  suppose, 
like  the  "  martial  mayd."  Is  Spenser 
a  favourite  poet  of  yours  ?' 

'I  have  not  set  up  a  favourite 
poet.  I  think  in  roost  instances  it 
is  a  reflection  on  the  poet,  when 
yoimg  ladies  make  that  avowal.  I 
always  pity  Longfellow.' 

'On  the  contrary,  I  think  him 
greatly  to  be  envied.  No  Poet's 
Corner  would,  be  complete  without 
him,  in  the  ej-timation  of  the  fair  s-ex.' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  despise  mere  prct  ti- 
nespcs ;  and  I  am  not  of  the  gu.vhing 
school.  What  did  Georgie— your 
'aunt,'  I  mean— tell  you  about  me?' 

The  question  was  so  abrupt,  and 
the  flash  of  those  wonderful  eyes 
so  simultaneous,  that  I  was  com- 
pletely taken  by  surpiis^e;  and  I 
could  only  stammer  out  with  school- 
boy awkwardness  of  manner,  '"Why, 


to  tell  you  tho  truth,  she  told  me 
nothing.' 

'  She  kept  her  own  counsel, 
then?' 

'  I  conclude  so.' 

*  I  thought  she  would  let  you 
into  the  secret,  and  then  tell  you  to 
be  sure  and  seem  surpiised.  Tliat 
is  how  dear  pimple  souls  like  her 
generally  negotiate  a  secret.' 

'  Surprised  at  what  ?' 

*  At  me.  Please  do  not  think  of 
paying  me  a  compliment.  I  know 
quite  well  what  they  say  about  me 
clown  here.  I  have  all  sorts  of 
detractors  as  well  as  adherents  in 
these  wilds,  and  the  worst  that  the 
first  can  say  of  me  is  that,  "  She's 
odd,  my  dear,  you  know— decidedly 
od  1." ' 

The  verdict  of  Miss  Johnson's 
detractors  was  given  by  her  with 
such  a  wonderful  imitition  of  the 
cracked,  feeble  voice  of  a  very  old 
lady,  that  I  looked  quickly  round 
at  her,  to  satisfy  ruyselt'  that  it  was 
only,  as  she  had  said  of  hi  r  hair,  a 
joke;  an  '  inimitable  imitation,' after 
all. 

'  Why  did  you  look  at  me  in  that 
curious  way?'  she  immediately  ob- 
served. 'Did  it  ha]ipcu  to  come 
at^ross  you  that  you  ijad  seen  mo 
before?' 

'  I  looked  to  see  if  it  was  yourself, 
as  an  Irishman  would  say :  you 
startled  me  by  your  powers  of 
mimicry.' 

'  And  you  were  not  thinking  that 
you  had  seen  me  before  ?'  she  per- 
sisted. 

'  Certainly  not.  I  could  hardly 
have  been  oblivious  of  the  circum- 
stance if  I  had.' 

'  Oh,  dear !'  she  sighed  rather  than 
uttered,  after  this  injf]edge(i  remark 
of  mine,  of  which  I  was,  indeed, 
ashamed  the  moment  I  had  made  it. 
'  You  are  all  alike.  What  fools  you 
must  think  us— or,  saving  your 
presence,'  she  added,  witli  a  merry 
laugh,  '  what  fools  you  must  be. 
There  is  no  getting  you  to  ride 
straight,  if  there  is  a  gap  or  a  gate 
in  the  shape  of  a  comjiliniint  within 
a  mile  of  you.  I  only  asked  you  the 
question  because  you  have  seen  me 
before,  and  I  hav,  seen  you:  so 
what  becomes  of  yoi.r  compliment 
now?' 


C2 


Beautiful  Misa  Johison. 


'  Impncpihlo !'  I  exclaiiue<l,  this 
time  s|>oiitiiiieoasly.  '  I  could  not 
)mve  f  irgottcu  it  if  I  bad  see  you 
bofi»re.' 

'  That's  l>otter,'  Miss  Johnson 
coolly  retninel;  'more  "from  yo 
quickc,'  as  tlio  i)rc-l{  ip'iailites  say. 
1  don't  liko  cuiui)limLUts,  Mr. 
Gwynne.' 

'  TIk  n  you  do  not  like  the  truth ; 
for  tnitli  must  lake  the  f()rra  of  a 
cjinpliiiK'nt  when  it  deals  with  you.' 
'I  like  pno'l.  wiioksoino  flattery; 
that's  quite  a  ilifferent  tliiii)ij.  If  you 
had  simply  :  aiil,  "  I  think  you  the 
most  Ixautifiil  creature  lever  saw," 
I  shouM  h;ivetaken  it, and  swallowed 
it,  as  a  child  doc^a  sugai'|ilnm;  hut 
mere  coin[)lim' nts  are  stale  and 
uiiprofitahle :  there  is  nothiug  racy 
or  to  the  p  )int  ahout  them.* 

'I  must  apolop;ize  most  humhly 
for  the  transgression  ;  and  in  return, 
will  you  he  so  pood  as  to  enlighten 
me?  IIow,  when,  and  where  did 
I  sec  you  before  V 

'  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  that : 
I  will  only  te'l  you  that  I  have  not 
lived  in  Nortli  iJevon  all  my  life.' 

'  That  f  ictsfieaks  for  itself.  Aunt 
Georgie's  trium])h  is  but  a  short- 
lived one,  aft(,'r  all.' 

'  What  triumph  are  you  speaking 
of,  Mr.  Gwvnne?' 

'Her  triumph  over  mo  with 
regard  to  tlic  advantage^!  of  country 
over  town  life.  I  know  her  secret 
now :  slio  meant  to  jday  you  as  her 
trump  card,  trying  to  pa.ss  you  off 
U|)on  me  as  ♦'a  wild  girl  of  the 
woods.''  Poor,  diar,  imjocent  Aunt 
Georgie.  It  must  have  lieen  in 
town  thiit  I  have  seen  you — that  we 
Lave  met  Iiefore.  Miss  Johnson.' 

'Possibly.  You  aie  a  Guard.s- 
maii  ?' 

I  bowfd.and  a  Fancy  smile  played 
round  tlie  corners  of  her  nu)uth, 
which  seemed,  to  my  ardent  imagi- 
nation, to  ini]»iy,  '  and  you  are  also 
very,  very  young.' 

'  Yoti  are  bored  to  death  down 
liere  in  these  wild  moors,  I  snj»posc,' 
was  all  she  sni'l ;  Imt  there  was  a 
mi.-5cliii'Vou.s  look  in  her  <lancing 
<  yes,  that  put  me  on  my  guard  as  I 
an^wcrcil,  '  Not  at  all :  1  enjoy  it  for 
a  change  above  nil  thingH.  1  should 
i\ot  like  to  think  1  xwis  condennied 
to  fctagnato  hero  for  life ;  that's  all.' 


'You  would  not  liko  to  bo  me 
then,'  my  companion  answered;  and 
I  thought  the  tone  of  her  voice 
melloweil  into  sadness  as  she  rtv 
peated  to  herself  ab.sently,  as  it 
fceemed  to  me,  my  words  '  for  life.' 

'  That  will  not  be  your  fate.' 

'  It  will— at  least,'  she  added  with 
a  feverish  fervour  both  in  her  eyes 
and  voice, '  1  hope  and  pray  that  it 
will.' 

'  J)o  you  not  feel  yourself  wasted, 
thrown  away,  down  here— you  who 
are  so  prc-em '  Here  1  remem- 
bered myself  in  time,  and  broke  ofl 
in  the  middle  of  the  word. 

'I  am  glad  you  pilled  up.  I 
should  so  like  to  fed  tiiat  there  was 
one  man  in  the  world  who  could 
talk  to  me,  as  if  my  sex— and  my 
Iteauty,  if  you  like  (for  I  am  so  vain 
you  see  that  coui])liments  are  thrown 
away  upon  mo),  did  not  put  mo  be- 
yond the  pale  of  common  sen.se.  It 
was  bad  enough  before,  but  it  is  so 
exaggerated  down  here.  I  will  show 
you  what  I  mi  an.  Sir  Jolin,'  she 
said,at>rui)tly  turning  to  the  baronet, 
who  had  hardly  uttered  since  the 
torch  hail  been  applied  to  the  Drnidi- 
cal  altar,  and  the  sacrificing  high 
])riest,  the  butler,  hail  ])our(d  out 
his  libations,  like  blo^d,  '  what  did 
you  think  of  the  chcMiut  I  liad  out 
with  the  .staghounds  the  other  «iay  ; 
was  he  up  to  the  mark,  or  not  ?' 

'  Every  horse  looks  up  to  the 
mark  that  you  ride,  Mii-s  Johnson. 
Certainly  when  you  are  on  his  back 
he  stands  a  chance  of  being  over- 
looke<l ;  tliat's  the  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter, I  take  it.  Somttliing  better 
worth  lo  )king  at  there,  (  h':*' 

'  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean,' 
she  said,  turning  coolly  to  me.  '  It 
is  hard,  isn  t  it'.''  I  really  want  to 
have  an  opinion  about  that  chesnut, 
and  Sir  John's  is  as  gooil  as  any 
one's  about  here,  that  is  to  say,  if  he 
would  give  it.  Now  I'll  try  some- 
thing else.  AVhich  of  the  rival  can- 
didates is  likely  to  be  returned  for 
Silverton,  Mr.  Ai)plci:arde?  I  have 
been  canva.'-sing  ail  the  farmers  for 
the  true  bine.' 

'  You  don't  wear  it  in  your 
eyes,  that's  the  worst  f>f  it— don't 
stand  to  your  own  colours.  You'd 
be  irre.-i.stdile  it  you  did,  like  the 
Duche&ii  of  Lievoiibkiru  iu  old  times. 


Beautiful  Miss  Johnson. 


63 


who  gave  a  kif  s  to  a  butcher  for  his 
Tote.' 

'  Tliank  yon,  squire,  for  the  hint ; 
I  will  leave  the  bntcliers  of  North 
Devon  to  tlu  ir  fate  ratlier  than  run 
such  ris^ks.  You  would  hardly  be- 
hevc  now,'  she  said,  again  addressing 
me,  '  that  the  squire  is  a  hard  headed, 
practical  man  in  his  vocation,  and 
that  his  heart  is  with  the  Conserva- 
tive candidate.  This  is  what  1  have 
to  bear  \vith,  and  1  do  so  stand  in 
need  of  a  friend— a  practical,  sen- 
sible fricnch  for  I  am  very  much 
alone  down  here.' 

It  might  have  been  a  fancy,  but 
I  thought  that  those  large  lustrous 
orbs  moistened  for  a  moment,  and 
that  there  was  a  slight,  tremor  in 
her  voice,  as  the  last  sentence  es- 
caped her,  and  I  answered,  h)wering 
my  voice  instinctively,  'too  much 
alone,  perhaps.  Have  you  read  that 
book,  Miss  Johnson?' 

'  I  have  read  eveiy  book,  I  be- 
lieve, that  has  come  out  within  the 
last  two  years.  I  have  twenty  vo- 
lumes from  Mudie's  at  a  time,  and  I 
change  them  every  mouth.' 

I  noticed  that  she  used  the  singu- 
lar personal  pronoun  with  reference 
to  her  li!e  and  actions.  "Was  it  ]"ios- 
sible  that  this  young  and  beautiful 
girl  actually  lived  alone  on  these 
wild  moors,  among  this  semi-bar- 
barous race,  who  evidently,  to  use 
her  own  words,  'boi'edher  to  death' 
with  their  platitudes  and  their 
clumsy  idolatry?  The  idea  was 
pre]iosterous,  and  I  ventured  on  a 
leading  question  to  clear  up  my 
doubts  on  the  subject. 

'  You  do  not  mean  to  imply  that 
you  live  alone,  Miss  Johnson? 
Society  down  here  of  course  there  is 
none ;  but  you  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  you  live  by  yourself?' 

'Virtually  I  do,'  was  the  reply. 
'  Mrs.  Gwynne  ■«  ill  tell  you  all  about 
me— it  is  part  of  our  consjiiracy, 
you  must  know;  she  will  tell  you 
also  how  much  I  stand  in  need  of  a 
ttiend — in  a  man  of  the  world,  I 
mean,  who  would  not  be  likely  to 
misinterpret  any  plam  speaking  or 
])lain  dealing  on  my  jiart;  such  a 
friend,  indeed,  as  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  me  to  make  here.' 

I  thought  I  detected  a  sparkle  of 
fun  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them 


steadily  to  my  face,  when  her  voice 
gravely  pronounced  the  flattering 
insinuation  witli  regsinl  to  my 
boasted  knowledge  of  the  world ; 
and  I  imnicil lately  scortd  one  to 
my  mischipvons  aunt's  account,  for 
1  knew  that  she  had  bei  n  at  work 
here,  and  left  her  (hiinty  fjotprints 
to  betray  her  place  of  ambush  to 
the  foe. 

*  If  I  should  ever  be  so  happy,'  I 
had  begun,  when  at  a  nod  from  my 
aunt  the  whole  body  feminine  rose 
en  masse,  and  were  trnnslated  from 
our  sight  in  clouds  of  crinoline  and 
gauze,  a  signal  on  the  part  of  my 
uncle  enlightenitig  me  as  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  ex|iected  to  take  the 
baronet  under  my  peculiar  adminis- 
tration, which  mcaiit  piling  him 
with  excellent  port,  and  listening 
patiently  to  his  ponderous  twaddle, 
imtil  the  distant  notes  of  the  piano 
should  sound  the  welcome  signal  of 
alarm,  to  summon  us,  as  my  uncle 
reminded  U.S,  with  a  liitle  nervous 
flutter  of  his  napkin, '  to  the  ladies.' 

He  hated  tho.'-e  loi'g  sittings  as 
cordially  as  myself,  and  the  long- 
winded  talk  of  his  c  mntry  neigh- 
bours over  his  good  wine.  Not  that 
he  grudged  them  the  wine,  he  was 
as  hospitable  and  as  ojieii- handed  as 
the  day ;  but  since  he  had  married 
his  chariuing  little  ^ife  the  prattle 
of  feminine  tongues  was  sweeter  to 
him  than  the  mngisttrial  and  poli- 
tical discussions  of  which  he  had 
enough  on  the  bench  and  at  the 
cover-side. 

'  Let  us  have  some  music,  Georgie,' 
he  said  at  once,  going  np  to  his 
wife — a  request  on  his  part  which 
led,  in  the  first  instnnre,  to  an  extra- 
ordinary atlildic  displiiy  and  feat  of 
arms  on  the  part  of  Miss  Althea 
Bull,  who  thundered  through  a 
wonderful  composition,  which  she 
ingenuously  called  '  Ik  r  piece,' when 
called  upon,  as  a  matte  r  of  course, 
on  the  conclusio)!  of  the  perform- 
ance to  render  np  the  name  of  the 
composer  who  had  hit  upon  the 
conception  of  noi,<e,  unadulterated 
by  the  slightest  admixture  of  har- 
mony or  air. 

'Thunk  you  so  much  ;  I  am  sure 
you  must  be  tired.'  said  my  uncle, 
innocent  of  the  imder  current  of 
satire  which  some  thought  they  had 


C4 


Beautiful  Miss  Joltuson. 


detected  in  his  remark;  nnd  ns  lio 
ba.stcucd  to  ]<]y  liir  witli  tea  he 
vrhispend  to  his  wife  ns  ho  iiassed, 
'I  hopo  Miss  Johuson  is  goiug  to 
siiipr,  my  doir.' 

'Miss  Johnson  vmsf  sin?,'  my 
aunt  re]»lie<l ; 'you  po  to  lier  from 
nie,  ami  tt-il  Ikt  that  I  will  take  no 
refusal ;  slie  is  wonderfully  quiet  to- 
niplit,"  she  added,  thinking  she  was 
addressi'  g  inr  husliaud  who,  how- 
ever. 1  a  I  k-lt  h(r  side. 

Wiun  sh"  (h'seovered  her  mistake 
she  in'nis'ed  lier  message  to  me, 
and  I  hastei  e  I  in  quest  ot  the  lovely 
stranger,  llie  flow  ot  whose  wliifc 
draperies  I  had  already  detected, 
half-hi  idiu  hy  the  heavy  silk  cur- 
tain whirh  ])'>rtioiied  otf  my  Aunt 
Georgie's  I'ondoir  from  the  drawing- 
room,  in  which  they  did  not  often 
sit  when  idono. 

She  was  alone,  hut  within  car- 
shot  of  tlie  cc  nversation  which  was 
hiing  carrieil  on  between  Sir  John 
and  Mr.  Ajiplegarde,  his  brotiicr 
mngistrate  nn  the  bench  at  Silver- 
ton,  the  county  town  of  the  nei^ih- 
bourhood  ;  and  I  caught  the  wonis 
'somewhere  in  hiding,'  'detective 
down,'  'think  they've  got  a  clue,' 
which  account  d  to  me  for  the  al> 
stracted,  uhnnt  air  with  which  Miss 
Johnson  WIS  stroking  the  head  of 
my  auntV  little  terrier  Spot,  looking 
down,  nnd  not  jxrceiving  my  en- 
trance, until  I  had  had  nm])le  oppor- 
tunity of  lemarking  the  fall  and 
slight  up.vard  curl  of  the  most 
beautiful  cyt  lushes  in  the  world. 

She  \\as  very  pale,  very  sad,  I 
thought,  at  first ;  but  then  her  own 
expression  recurred  to  me  in  all  its 
mournful  significance,  and  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  only 
'bored  to  death'  from  living,  as  she 
liad  more  than  hinted,  'too  much 
alonn,  or  amiclst  minds  and  natures 
Ko  alien  to  lho.se  amongst  which  her 
lot  must  once  have  been  cast.' 

She  greeted  inc  with  a  smile,  and 
inidine*!  her  hwid  praciously  towards 
the  chair  at  lit  r  side— a  tacit  invi- 
tation which  I  pladly  obeyed,  .saying, 
as  I  did  so,  '  I  am  the  bearer  ot  a 
1  K  ssa;.'e,  Miss  Johnson,  a  request 

(2o  6e  co)( 


from  iny  aunt  that  yon  will  sing — 
she  declines  to  take  any  nfusal.' 

*  I  shall  bo  very  liap])y,'  she  re- 
plied, innncdiately  rising,  nnd  leav- 
ing tlie  recess;  then  looking  over 
her  shoulder  with  a<iueenly  gesture, 
that  became  her  right  well,  she  said, 
'  j\Iy  fan,  if  you  plea.se,  Mr.  Gwynne, 
it  is  nu  the  worktable  at  jour  riglit.' 

Tiiere  I  found  't  at  last ;  but  it 
was  within  the  sheets  of  a  paper 
which  I  Ind  brought  that  day  from 
Silverton,  whither  I  iiad  been  sent 
late  on  a  mission  which  had  for  its 
object  that  same  turi)ot  which,  nc- 
coriiing  to  Miss  Johnson,  had  formed 
the  preface  of  the  bnioiict's  grace. 

'  Thank  yon,' she  said,  as  I  gave  her 
the  Ian;  '1  must  have  left  it  there 
when  I  was  looking  tor  the  meets.' 

As  she  placed  lier.«elf  at  the  piano 
every  one  ceased  talking,  and  my 
uncle,  a  genuine  lover  of  music, 
loiked  across  at  me,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  Preparfi  yourself  lor  a  rich 
treat.' 

Indeed,  I  was  prepared  already; 
for  there  was  music  in  every  inflec- 
tion of  her  voice,  in  every  har- 
monious line  of  iier  face ;  and  as  she 
played  a  prelude,  which  reminded 
one  of  a  breath  of  wind  stirring  the 
surface  of  a  lonely  mountain  lake, 
she  betrayed  the  perfect  mastery 
over  the  instrument,  which,  under 
lier  fingers,  sighed  like  the  tuneful 
reed  of  Tan.  Twice  she  had  struck 
a  leading  chord,  as  though  about  to 
launch  her  voice,  like  a  skitf  upon 
the  rising  waters  of  song,  and  twice 
the  sounds  had  died  ujion  her  lips 
— a  failure  which  she  artistically 
conceakrl  by  l)reaking  apain  into 
im])rovisatised  snatches  of  melody, 
which  were  exquisite  in  themselves, 
but  which,  I  f<  ar,  were  only  appre- 
ciated as  liarbingers  of  her  voice. 
In  vain  we  expected  it;  the  sweet 
lips  were  silent  still ;  ami,  as  we 
waited  in  anxious,  spcU-liound  ex- 
pectation, the  music  c(ased  nllo- 
gether,  and  mv  uncle,  with  a  sudden 
exclamation,  darted  to  the  side  ot 
the  mu.sician,  who  nas  sinking  like 
a  snfiw-drift  from  her  seat  to  the 
ground. 
tiiiued.) 


65 


WATER  DEEBIE3. 


*  AB  ORIGINE.' 


WE  are  all  mad,  argiies  Daraa- 
sippus,  each  in  his  own  \ray, 
the  maniac  by  the  judgment  of  the 
■world,  the  wise  man  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  fool ;  and  in  some  such 
light  may  each  generation  -view  the 
rages  and  fashions  of  its  ancestors 
and  successors.  Sportsmen  of  the 
moor  or  the  hunting  fieM  would  not 
now  tolerate  the  '  walking  after 
hounds '  from  sunrise,  the  slow  evo- 
lutions of  a  lumbering  Spanish 
pointer  that  delighted  our  ancesfril 
squires;  and  they,  in  turn,  would 
stand  aghast  at  the  prodigality  of 
sport  condensed  or  siiuandereJ  in 
an  hour  by  us,  when  the  fox  is 
raced  down  in  forty  minutes  be- 
tween midday  anl  afternoon  tea,  or 
the  cover  that  has  been  nursed  and 
watched  for  months  is  sacked  in 
one  short  hour  to  gratify  the  pride 
of  a  grand  battue. 

Nor  could  they  who  thought  no 
shame  in  daily  drunkenness  and  the 
pride  of  three- bottle  prestige,  led  on 
by  early  daylight  dinner  and  fos- 
tered by  supper  at  unnatural 
hours,  who  cried  content  with  the 
present  continental  standard  of  ab- 
lution, relieved  in  aristocratic  in- 
stances by  the  Saturday's  warm 
bath,  appreciate  the  early  supper, 
so  construed  dinner  now  a  days, 
moderate  potations,  early  retire- 
ment, and  daily  '  tub'  that  charac- 
terises the  life  of  nine- tenths  of  our 
'  upper  ten.' 

Change  of  regime  of  body  must 
perforce  include  change  of  habits 
and  exercise,  and  example  once  set 
all  follow  suit  readily  to  the  new 
doctrine.  Hence,  now  that  the 
soberer  and  more  wholesome  line  of 
life  of  the  new  generation  has  given 
new  impulse  to  the  physique  and 
lengthened  the  rates  of  life  assur- 
ance, what  wonder  that  we  seek  to 
test  in  rivalry  physical  develop- 
ments no  longer  crippled  by  ap- 
petite or  fashion;  that  athletic 
sports,  in  all  sorts  and  shapes,  have 
taken  such  hold  upon  the  mind  of 
om*    British    youth?     The    furore 

VOL.  SIL— ^■0.  LXVII. 


did  not  develop  itself  in  one  year, 
or  even  in  a  decade.  More  than 
half  a  century  was  required  to  de- 
velop the  time-honoured  llamblo- 
don  and  Chislehurst  club-;  into 
the  all  legislative  M.  C.  C.  It  was 
years  before  grown  '  men '  of  Uni- 
versities and  public  clubs  conde- 
scended to  practice  in  after  life  the 
sports  of  foot-racing,  football,  &c., 
that  they  had  learnt  and  enjoyed 
at  school,  but  for  so  long  taboo"d 
as  childish  when  they  changed  their 
scene  of  action;  and  last  in  mei.t  (in, 
yet  greatest  in  existence  and  oldc-t 
in  date,  has  been  the  ever-increasing 
furore  for  aquatics,  rowing  and 
sculling,  2^ur  et  simjjle,  and  not  the 
mongrel  unhealthiness  of  '  canoe- 
ing.' One  race,  jyar  excUence,  from 
the  purity  of  its  aim  and  excellence 
of  its  end,  the  prosfige  of  its  per- 
formers, the  publicity  of  its  date 
and  of  its  locality,  has  gained  the 
title  of  the  '  Water-Derby.' 

Ten  years  agone  scarcely  a  para- 
graph in  the  daily  papers  heralded 
the  advent  to  Putney  of  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  crews ;  their  week 
of  sojourn  was  passed  in  silence; 
and  a  quarter-column  sketch,  at  a 
'  penny  a  line,'  told  sufficient  for  the 
hour  of  the  struggle  when  past. 
And  now  the  '  Thunderer '  itself 
thinks  no  scorn  to  devote  two  co- 
lumns of  description  and  a  '  leader ' 
to  boot  on  the  day  of  battle ;  and 
the  cheap  press  and  its  satellites 
have  fattened  for  days  past  upon 
the  jottings  and  i^ickings  of  Putney 
practice.  Barnes  Terrace  and  Ham- 
mersmith Bridge  rival  the  'Eow' 
and  the  '  cb-ive,'  in  fashion  for  our 
afternoon  lounger  as  the  race  draws 
near ;  and  the  Saturday  half-holiday 
brings  down  a  larger  throng  of  spec- 
tators for  the  practice  of  dark  and 
light  blue  than  came  to  see  the 
race  itself  in  the  great  days  of 
Chitty  and  Meade  King. 

We  hear  so  much  of  late  that  the 
Cam  is  a  '  mere  ditch,'  upon  which 
no  decent  boat  can  row  and  train, 
that  few  will  credit  the  fact  that, 


66 


Water  Derhict. 


for  pomo  fortnitons  reason,  rowing 
was  a  iiopuliir  iioj-tinicnt  Cauibridpo 
even  eiirlier  tlian  at  Oxford;  luit 
tliis  is  g<iinp;  back  to  the  '  dark 
flpes:'  in  tliosc  times  as  now  the 
Cam  was  easy  of  access  over  open 
and  comiiion  ground  ;  l)at  the  Isis, 
Ixmndeil  by  ("hri.>>tohurch  meadows, 
did  not  lie  in  a  llioronghfarf,  and 
l>oat-bniUlers  bad  no  licence  to  set 
np  shop  as  now,  alongside  of  the 
walks.  But  Oxford  soon  canpht 
the  infection,  and  within  half  a 
generation  the  first  University  race 
took  iiiacc  upon  the  Thames  trom 
]Iuniblcdon  to  Henley.  There 
Staniforth  for  Oxford,  still  a  hale 
and  hearty  squire  on  the  shores  of 
^Vin(ler^l(  re,  backed  up  by  Gamier 
and  Wordsworth  of  the  future  epis- 
copate, won  the  toss  for  sides,  no 
small  pain,  and  the  race  with  ease, 
while  Snow,  the  Cambridge  stroke, 
liad  behind  liim  the  present  Bishop 
Selwyn  of  New  Zealand,  so  early 
were  the  doctrines  of  '  mu.tcnlar 
Chri.stianity  '  inaugurated.  '  Light ' 
and  'dark'  blue  •were  not  then 
established;  Oxford  wore  blue 
rosettes  generally  — Cambridge  took 
pink,  in  tho.so  days  it  was  often 
the  custom  for  the  'head'  College 
Eight  of  each  river,  Cam  and  Isis,  to 
meet  by  mutual  consent  at  the  end 
of  summer  tirm  as  representatives 
of  their  Universities.  This  accounts 
for  the  non-continuance  of  tlie 
match  by  Cambridge.  No  records 
of  these  larly  da\s  are  preserved, 
but  we  liear  that  Queen's  College 
headed  Oxford,  Christchurch  hav- 
ing '  taken  off'  from  the  liead,  in 
con.'^cquence  of  the  opposition  of 
their  dean,  in  1837,  and  as  the  re- 
cord saith,  '  went  as  u.sual'  to  row 
the  head  boat  of  Cambridge,  St. 
John's,  on  the  Henley  reach,  and 
'  beat  them  easily.'  Tlie  recurrence 
of  these  matches,  and  the  rivalry 
and  anxiety  ot  other  clubs  to  com- 
pete with  the  Universities,  caused 
the  local  gentry  of  Henley  to  give 
the  far-f.mied  '  Grand  Challenge 
Cup,'  ojKn  to  the  world,  in  1839, 
ami  this,  with  snbpcquent  additional 
prizes,  formed  Henley  Regatta. 
However,  in  1836  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  had  met  again;  this 
time  from  Wcsiminster  to  I'litney 
was  tlio  course,  live  and   a   half 


miles,  and    Cambridge   won    with 
case. 

A  litllejater,  wo  fancy  in  1838,' 
Cambridge,  unabio  to  get  a  race 
with  Oxfurd,  clial!(ns.('d  the  world, 
and  made  a  match  with  the  then  great 
'  Lcander '  Cliii).  The  rowing  world 
thought  that  Cantat*  entlmsiasm 
had  overshot  tlie  nark;  Imt  Cam- 
bridge won  gallantly- each  had 
'  jirofessional'  coxswains.  In  1839 
Ca'iibridge  again  m:ide  an  example 
of  (Oxford  from  Westminster  up;  in 
1S40  they  beat  them  again,  but 
Oxford  were  close  up,  30  leet  only 
astern,  and  not  disgraced;  Imt  in 
1 84 1  they  fell  off,  and  lost  by  half  a 
minute.  In  1842  Oxford  had  a  re- 
vival;  some  scieiitilic  men,  whose 
names  are  f-till  u  household  word — 
Sir  R.  ]Menzus,and  A.  Shadwell,  and 
G.  Hughes,  brother  ot  the  Laml)eth 
M.Jf .,  turned  the  tide  and  won  the 
hrst  race  tor  Oxford  on  l>ondon 
■water.  Jn  1843  there  was  no  race, 
but  the  O.  LI.  15.  C.  went  to  Henley, 
and  the  episode  of  the  '  seven  oars  ' 
came  off.  The  '  Cambridge  Sub- 
scription Ri'oms'  held  the  Cup;  in 
their  crew  were  all  the  elite  of 
Cambridge  oarsmen  of  1841  and 
1842,  some  left,  some  still  resident 
at  Cambridge.  Oxford  won  the 
trial  lieats,  but  in  wailing  for  tlie 
start  for  the  final  heat  the  {>xonian 
stroke,  II.  Menzies,  who  had  been 
for  some  dijs  in  a  weak  state  ot 
health,  fainted  in  No.  <;'s  arms.  His 
recovery  was  impossible,  and  Cam- 
bridge Willi  jufctiee  refused  Oxford 
tlic  use  of  any  outside  member  of 
their  club  who  might  bo  present, 
but  granted  an  hour".s  delay  for  the 
stroke's  convalt  srence.  Meantime 
Oxford,  infuriated  at  tiic  idea  of 
losing  victory  wlun  apjmrently 
within  their  gias]),  determined  to 
start  with  seven  (jars,  and  to  the 
post  they  wont,  piiltii^g  7  at  stroke; 
liow  at  7,  and  bow  oar  vacant. 
Cambridge  rowed  to  the  Stewards' 
Stand  and  protcsfed  against  the 
incorrect  numlur  of  oars,  hut  the 
executive  I  ade  them  surrender  the 
Cup  or  row.  At  the  start  they 
offered  to  reverse  their  refusal  and 
allow  Oxiord  any  o:ie  they  liked 
from  the  bank;  but  tlie  latter  in 
turn  refused,  and  liu;dly  won  a  good 
race  by  a  clear  Icni^th  amidst  an 


Water  Derbies . 


67 


uproar  unparalleled.  But  this  feat, 
though  a  gn  at  uno,  cannot  rank  as 
a  '  University  match.'  Of  this 
'  glorious  seven,'  all  but  the  lato 
Colonel  Brewster  of  the  Inns  of 
Court  Volunteers,  are  still  alive, 
and  for  po  Verity  the  name  of  the 
rest  were,  F.  Menzies  (brother  of 
the  stroke  who  broke  down),  E. 
Eoyds,  G.  Boarne,  J.  C.  Cox,  K. 
Lowndes,  G.  Hughes;  steered  by 
A.  Shad  well.  This  crew  with  a  new 
bow,  Sta))j  Iton,  again  beat  the 
Cambridge  crew,  and  also  the  Le- 
ander  Club,  a  few  days  later,  for  the 
Gold  Cup  at  the  Thames  Regatta. 
In  1844  no  match  again  ;  but  at  the 
Thames  Regatta  the  0.  U.  B.  C.  again 
beat  Leander,  and  this  time  also  a 
load  fide  C.  U.  B.  C.  crew,  by  a  long 
distance.  In  1845  Cambridge  came 
forward  and  beat  Oxford,  both  at 
London  in  a  match  and  for  the 
Grand  Cup  at  Henley.  This  time 
the  course,  in  consequence  of  the 
increase  of  steamer  traffic,  was  from 
Putney  to  Mortlake.  In  1846  Cam- 
bridge again  won;  this  time' a  hard 
race.  In  1847  there  was  no  match, 
but  Oxford  beat  Cambridge  at  Hen- 
ley easily.  In  1849  there  were  two 
races,  of  which  each  won  one,  Ox- 
ford the  later  one,  by  a  foul,  but 
were  plainly,  by  all  accounts,  the 
best  crew.  In  1848,  1850,  and  1S51 
there  were  no  matches,  but  the 
results  of  the  Grand  Challenge  Cup, 
won  each  of  these  years  at  Henley 
by  Oxford,  and  on  the  latter  occa- 
sion to  the  discomfiture  of  a  Cam- 
bridge University  crew,  seems  to 
point  to  their  superiority.  In  1852 
the  celebrated  Chilly's  crew  beat 
Cambridge  in  a  match,  and  Meade 
King's  crew  did  the  same  with  equal 
ease  in  1854.  In  1853  there  had 
been  no  race,  but  both  clubs  met  at 
Henley,  and  Oxford  won;  they  won, 
however,  by  six  inches  only,  and  had 
the  best  station  of  the  two,  so  that 
Cambridge,  even  if  defeated,  bore 
no  disgrace.  In  1855,  the  'long 
frost '  stopped  an  impending  match, 
but  at  Henley  Cambridge  beat  Ox- 
ford easily.  They  did  the  same  in 
a  London  match  in  1856,  bat  in 
1857  Oxford  won  again,  with  a  cele- 
brated crew. 

In  1858  Cambridge  won  at  Lon- 
don, but  the  OiLford  stroke  damaged 


his  rowlock  at  the  start,  so  that  he 
could  hardly  use  it.  However, 
Cambridge  won  the  Cup  at  lleidey 
that  summer,  unopposed  liy  Oxford. 
In  1859  Cambridge  sank  in  the 
London  match,  but  wtre  fairly 
beaten  at  the  time.  In  t86o,  Cam- 
bridge won  a  hard  race,  and  since 
then  Oxonian  victory  has  been  uni- 
tbrm;  but  the  hard -ton  gl  it  races  of 
the  last  two  years,  in  each  of  wliich 
Cambridge  has  held  tl;e  had  for 
three  miles,  yet  lost  the  ra^c  in  the 
fourth  mile,  have  increased  rather 
than  diminished  the  interest  at- 
tached to  the  affair.  Nearer  and 
nearer  have  Cambridge  come  each 
year  to  victory;  in  1864  they  led 
for  a  few  hundred  yards,  in  1865 
for  three  miles,  in  1866  for  three 
miles  and  a  half,  and  on  April  13th 
last  they  rowed  the  most  wondrous 
neck-and-neck  race  on  record,  de- 
feated only  at  the  la&t  by  three- 
quarters  of  a  length.  Who,  then, 
can  say  that  the  tide  of  the  last 
seven  years  is  not  turning,  even 
now? 


11. 

now  WE  SAW  THE   LATEST. 

Time  -  honoured  '  Evans's,'  re- 
stricted to  a  'half-crown  benefit' 
entrance  fee,  fell  far  short  of  the 
Pandemonium  that  usnally  ushers 
in  the  early  morn  of  a  'Varsity  race. 
No  crush,  no  shattered  tables  or 
torn  rails  (for  the  latter  had  been 
with  foretaught  wisdom  removed 
beforehand),  no  Bedlam,  no  Babel, 
but  a  muttered  hum  fiom  moving 
groups  that  idly  lounged  around 
the  area. 

Thither  had  '  we  three '  strayed — 
A,  B,  and  C,  your  humble  servant 
whichever  you  please— a  light  blue, 
a  dark  blue,  and  a  waif  from  Alder- 
shot.  The  Cantab,  A,  had  no  wish 
to  display  patriotism  at  the  expense 
of  pocket,  and  agreeing  with  the 
other  two,  much  to  his  disgust,  that, 
barring  accidents,  Oxford  must  win 
on  the  morrow,  had  joined  us  in  an 
endeavour  to  lay  a  few  mutual  6  to 
4's  as  our  opinion.  Somehow  or 
other  speculation  was  a  dead  letter 
at  Evans's  this  year;  dimini.'^hed 
numbers  and  increasing  confidence 
F  2 


68 


Water  Derbies, 


in  Oxford  made  tlio  quoted  '  6  to  4' 
of  tlio  eveniii;^  papers  a  coinplcto 
ni.vlh,  and  tliou^li  2  to  i  was  cur- 
rtntly  <niolet  tliero  was  littlo  or 
ii'itliing  to  1)6  done  even  for  tlmt 
]irict'.  We  lioard  troni  hi'o  arrivals 
of  6  and  7  to  4  greedily  taken  at 
the  'Oxford.'  l)iit  a  visit  tliero  was 
too  lute.  C'invt  r-atioii,  elialT,  and 
brandy  ami  soda  killed  lialf  an  hour, 
and  as  tie  clock  afiproaclied  tlio 
first  small  luiiir  v\c  wiarily  paused 
for  a  brtaih  of  air  in  the  colonnade 
ontside.  Breakfast  at  the  Star  and 
Garter  at  7  A  M.  was  the  first  fixture 
of  our  council  of  war;  then  came 
discuss-ion  iiow  we  kIiouUI  kill  the 
time.  The  hours  poemed  too  short 
to  make  it  worth  while  to  seek  the 
'downy.'  'We  should  scarce  be  in 
our  first  deep  plicp  l)efore  it  bo 
time  to  rouse  and  liitt.'  'What  is 
worth  doinjr  at  all  is  worth  doing 
well,'  argued  a  eecorid ;  and  'no 
good  sleep  can  bo  pot  in  four 
hours.'  '  A  social  rubber  till  dayliglit/ 
propo.cfd  the  tliinl,  with  areservation 
in  favour  of  'unlimited  loo'  as  two 
other  kindnd  spiiits  lounged  lazily 
up  to  join  the  confabulation.  But 
the  objection  to  sluinl'er  was  more 
in  bravado  than  otherwise,  and  Ave 
fehould  have  Ken  f-orry  to  l>e  taken 
at  our  words;  one  by  one  our  hearts 
faile<l  u><,  an<l  the  neighbouring 
Tavistock  r(c«-ived  us. 

A  splasli  and  plunge  in  an  inade- 
quate'tnmby'  by  mongrel  twilight 
and  can<ileliglit,  and  a  bottle  of  soda 
dashed  with  V.  O.  P.,  soon  washed 
away  jiarched  '(opjiers/  the  penalty 
of  late  hours  anfl  heated  atnios])here. 
A  dismal  drive  through  drizzling 
rain  in  the  woist  of  night  'growlers' 
to  Butney  Bridge  t>raced  the  appe- 
tite for  even  a  7  a.m.  breakfast. 
The  'road,'  at  ka)-t  through  I-'ul- 
liain,  in  the  early  hours,  fell  short 
of  the  glorie-f  of  oilier  years.  The 
line  of  pe<lestrinns  streaming  river- 
wards  was  but  scanty;  vehicles,  ex- 
ccj)t  rival  cabs,  were  few  and  far 
between,  and  horsemen  at  a  dis- 
count ;  but  wo  were  ahead  of  the 
tide,  Ixtth  of  land  and  wat<r.  An 
liour  later  saw  a  diangc.  Even  as 
We  neared  Fulham  the  Ixinrf/'di'sir 
began  to  turn  out  in  full  panoply, 
and  hlues  of  many  co!o\irs,  wlulo 
here  and  there  bibtc-rs  pairetl  off  in 


muslin  dresses  trimmed  with  tlie 
rival  shades.  But  the  rain  was 
jiitiless,  and  the  beauties  soon  were 
clraggletaiied  ere  they  reached  the 
scene  of  action. 

Biitnty  (lisi)layed  a  sort  of  dreary, 
drijiping  excitement;  the  White 
Bioii  and  Star  and  Garter,  tlie  two 
liead-ipiarttrs,  were  Ihroiiged  inside 
with  comjtatiiots,  outsiiie  with  satel- 
lites. 

A  heavy  breakfast  of  snbstantials, 
cver\tliir:g  thoroughly  'devilled,' 
brigldeiied  us  uj)  and  sent  us  to 
stroll  through  the  rain  in  quest  of 
go-sip.  ^Ve  left  the  Star  and  its 
denizens  despondent,  and  found 
those  of  tlie  Lion  triumjihant,  in 
that  for  the  sixth  successive  tune 
they  had  won  the  toss  for  stations  : 
an(l  iu  the  street  the  crowd  and 
crush  prow  denser  and  the  rain 
more  pitiless.  Jehus  and  their 
fieiglits  entangled  in  the  narrow 
turns  at  tlio  '  Bells'  expostulated 
and  vocifeia'ed ;  a  dense  nuiss  of 
dripping  umbrellas  blocked  the 
footway.  One  by  one  the  steamei-s 
surged  through  the  Pidney  jiiles, 
heavily  laden,  swaying  sluggishly 
fioiu  side  to  side,  and  as  the  very 
third  rale  ncapti<le  droned  ilreamily 
up  the  reach,  and  the  hour  for  do- 
llar! urt;  drew  nearer,  all  eyts  were 
turned  to  the  boat-houses.  We  liad 
charteii  d  a  wherry,  and  reached  our 
steauK  r  ofT  the  pier.  In  g"od  time 
Oxford  were  afloat,  and  closely  were 
Cainbiiilge  following  when  two 
of'teiiding  steamers  broke  the  line 
laid  down  by  orler  and  lay  to  off 
the  Bishop's  Creek  to  secure  a  self- 
ish start.  The  presidents  were 
firm,  and  he  of  the  light  blue  spoke 
his  mind  in  ])erson  and  finally  with 
success.  Then,  when  all  obstacles 
were  removed,  they  came  to  the 
starting-post,  as  near  as  jiossible  a 
match  in  height  and  weight,  at  an 
average  of  i  11).  a  man  in  favour  ot 
Oxford,  alxmt  i  in  170. 

Of  con i"se  party  feeling  rose  high, 
and  hopes  and  fears  still  higher; 
but  there  was  a  sort  of  desjiondency 
among  light  blue,  a  sort  of  faith  in 
the  run  of  ill-luck,  that  contrasted 
strongly  with  the  nervous  yet  bois- 
terous confidence  of  the  opposition. 
And  so  wo  strained  and  gazed  over 
each  other's    shoulders   till    Searle 


Water  Derbies. 


69 


bade  the  men  f?o,  and  with  an  in- 
stantaneoiis  shoit  the  race  had 
begun.  Each  r.ither  wild  at  start- 
ing as  they  sliot  by  ns,  Oxford  a 
trifle  ahead,  Cambridge  gradually 
qnickeuing  its  stroke  and  coming 
nearer,  but  not  quite  leading  as  they 
rapidly  left  us  and  swept  on  towards 
Craven  Point.  We  could  see  each 
crew  settle  down  to  its  work  and 
row  more  evenly,  but  the  contrast 
between  the  two  was  sorauthing 
wondrous.  An  ei^iht  half  way 
through  training  might  often  row 
a  faster  stroke  tluiu  the  Oxonians  at 
this  juncture,  infinitely  slower  than 
tlieir  practice  of  the  past  wtek ;  and 
Cambridge,  though  approximating 
nearer  to  a  racing  stroke,  were  yet 
doing  far  less  in  the  miuute  than 
even  Mr.  Brown  in  his  celebrated 
'waiting' race  of  1865.  The  '  neu- 
tral' of  Aldershot  times  fach  stroke 
as  they  pass  Rose  Bank,  and  we 
make  them  out  Oxford.  34  and  Cam- 
bridge 37  a  minute  They  steer 
■wide  of  each  other  here,  aud  Cam- 
bridge appears  to  be  going  by,  to 
the  intense  exultation  of  A;  but 
as  they  come  nearer  together  off  the 
Crab  Tree  we  can  see  the  rip.oles  of 
the  oars  as  near  as  possible  al)reast, 
Oxford  if  anything  in  front  (subse- 
quent reports  say  half  a  length,  but 
it  does  not  look  .^o  much).  Each  is 
now  rowing  better  than  at  the  start, 
and  quite  as  strong,  but  Oxford  still 
keep  on  the  same  slow  stroke,  and 
Cambridge  are  gra(bially  quickening 
theirs,  i'he  styles  are  very  distinct, 
Oxford  very  slow  forwar<l,  and  with 
a  long  reach,  yet  driving  their  oars 
through  the  water  at  double  the 
pace  of  Cambridge,  while  their  boat 
seems  to  spring  half  out  of  water  at 
each  stroke.  Caml>riiige  are  beau- 
tifully together,  but  fa.ster  forward 
proportionately,  and  even  slower  in 
Isringing  the  oar  through  the  water, 
though  rowing  the  faster  stroke, 
and  there  is  no  such  perceptible  lift 
in  their  boat.  We  held  our  breaths 
for  fear  of  a  foul,  as  Cambridge,  who 
had  been  apparently  going  for  the 
Surrey  arch  of  f  lammeismith  Bridge, 
steered  out  suddenly,  and  Oxford 
had,  by  mutual  agi  cement  of  the 
course,  to  make  room  for  them. 
But  all  was  safe,  and  they  shot  the 
bridge  in  safety.    Every  chain  and 


bolt  of  the  Suspenfion  was  black 
with  human  beings  swarming  up 
feet  and  claws  one  above  the  other; 
a  block  of  carriages  choked  all  traffic 
for  half  a  mile  back  into  Kensington 
and  right  to  Barnes.  There  was  an 
alarm  of  '  hats'  and  '  heads,'  for  tho-'^e 
who  stood  on  our  pad  llc-boxes,  as 
our  funnel  dropped  and  we  charged 
through  the  bridge,  the  rest  of  the 
steam  tieet  crowding  recklessly  be- 
hind us  and  jostling  each  other's 
timbers  as  they  shoved  through 
nearly  ten  abreast.  The  cheering 
crowd  told  iLS  of  Cambridge  ahead, 
aud  true  enough,  as  we  cleared  a 
view  through  the  cloud  of  smoke  of 
a  dirty  'tug'  that  led  the  whole 
fleet,  we  could  see  the  light  blue 
oars  sweeping  round  the  curve  of 
Chiswick  on  the  inside,  apparently 
a  length  in  front;  yet  still  not  for 
one  moment  did  Oxford  deviate  from 
their  stolid,  massive  strol^e,  and  the 
second-hand  of  C's  watch  again 
timed  them  at  34.  There  was  a 
head  wind  for  the  next  mile,  and 
but  for  the  weak  flow  of  the  tide 
there  would  have  been  a  strong 
*  sea ;'  as  it  was,  there  was  consider- 
able swell,  but  each  boat  went 
through  it  as  evenly  as  if  on  a  mill- 
pond.  B's  Oxonian  syujpithies 
came  in  for  chaff,  for  he  still  stuck 
to  his  colours,  and  C  consoled  the 
failure  of  his  prophecy  by  declaring 
himself  'devilish  glad  that  Cam- 
bridge had  a  turn  of  Inck — they 
deserved  it.'  Certainly  the  loss  of 
the  lead,  after  having  held  it  for 
two  miles,  looked  ominous  for  Ox- 
ford. To  all  appearances  Cambridge 
still  led  as  they  entered  Corney 
Keach  and  crossed  to  the  Middlesex 
shore;  and  it  was  not  till  they 
passed  the  Bull's  Hea  1  and  neared 
Barnes  Bridge  that  we  could  see 
that  Oxford  once  more  had  a  slight 
lead.  "We  heard  afterwards  that 
Oxford  really  went  in  front  again  at 
Chiswick  Church,  so  deceptive  is  a 
stern  view  in  perspective.  From 
Barnes  Bridge  we  could  see  that  a 
tremendous  race  was  going  on,  Cam- 
bridge now  rowing  a  terrific  stroke 
of  any  number,  and  even  Oxford 
doing  nearly  37  a  minute.  Past  the 
White  Hart  and  Mortlako  Brewery 
Cambridge  were  coming  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  beyond  the  'Ship/  the 


70 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


old  winninp-post,  within  a  ImndreJ 
yards  ot  tlic  cnij,  Oxford  siidikiily 
woko  np  and  ruslud  in  winners  by 
nearly  a  liii;;lli.  Wc  cuuld  see  tliat 
liny  liad  won,  tIiou;;h  not  l>y  how 
much.  It  is  lianl  to  say  which  crime 
iu  for  most  chcerinp,  but  Camhridfjo 
had  all  the  sympathy;  and  while 
Oxoniiins  swore  that  their  men  won 
with  something  to  spare,  even  they 
could  not  deny  a  Jortiori  the  meed 
of  ju'aise  to  the  Cantab  stroke  for 
havin><  made  such  a  race  with  what 
was,  by  confession  of  detractors,  the 
inferior  crew.  A  black  cloud  settled 
on  all  who  wore  licrht  blue;  it 
secmeil  so  hard  to  all  of  us  that  vic- 
tory should  come  so  near,  nearer 
than  ever,  yet  just  elude  the  grasp — 
an  if/h IS  fitt tilts. 

The  common  impression  of  spec- 
tators lower  down  the  river  seemed 
to  be  that  Cambriilge  had  won,  and 
it  took  many  assurances  from  return- 
ing ^t'amers  to  convince  them  to 
the  contr/iry.  Then  came  tlie  land- 
ing, the  crush  of  congratulation  and 
conJolence,  comparison  of  notes  and 
of  opinions,  anel  speculation  as  to 
other    jiossiblo    results.      JJut   the 


race  was  won  and  lost;  won,  un- 
donbteilly,  by  the  sup  rior  Fcicnco 
and  swing  of  the  Oxford  style,  lost 
by  the  (piicker  recovery  yet  le.«^s 
powerful  stroke  that  year  by  year 
comes  from  the  Cam.  Tiiat  tho 
di-^alvaiitapes  of  the  latter  river  for 
the  acquisiticm  of  the  art  of  light- 
boat  rowing  are  palpable  compared 
with  those  of  the  I.'-is  wo  all  agreed 
when  on  the  Sunday  evening,  freed 
from  the  hurly-burly  and  dreary 
speefhifsing  of  the  i)iiblic  eliimcr  of 
the  evening  before,  we  di.scu>scd  tho 
race  and  Uurgnndy  at  Francatelli's. 
Yet  we,  who  liad  .'■eeu  aiiel  known 
what  goo  1  teaching  and  theory 
could  do  for  F^toii  schoolboys  uneler 
Warre  could  not  uuiiei  stand  how 
that  the  art  once  acijuired  should 
l)ecomo  corrupt  t>y  being  trans- 
planted to  the  Fens  for  but  ono 
short  year ;  wlilo  juniors  of  lower 
boats,  who  in  school -da\s  had  sat  at 
the  feet  of  future  emigrants  to  tho 
Cam,  should,  wh(  n  engrafted  into 
tho  Isis  fchool  of  rowing,  learn  to 
l)eat  their  formt  r  leaders  at  their 
own  game.  Misfortune  surely  could 
not  be  inseparable  from  fault. 


BOATIXG  LIFE  AT  OXFOP.D. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   MAY  RACES.— 'ST.   ANTHONY'S  LrCK.' 


NE.VPiLY  two  years  had  gone  by 
since  tho  race  described  in  tho 
last  chapter,  and  two  years  bring 
great  changes  in  C<;llego  life.  Senior 
men  pass  away,  and  humble  mem- 
beis  of  the  Torpid,  and  the  second 
Eleven  rise  to  1)0  tlie  leading  spirits 
of  the  Colk'go.  And  on  these  leading 
spirits  a  great  deal  depends.  The 
reputation  of  the  College  on  tho 
river,  in  tho  cricket- field,  perhaps 
even  in  tiie  schools,  and  certainly  in 
moral  tone,  rests,  to  a  great  extent, 
with  the  president  of  llio  boat  club 
an<l  the  captain  of  tho  Eleven.  At 
least  it  was  so  in  St.  -Anthony's.  Tho 
College  tutors  heljied  us  to  win  Uni- 
versity prizes,  and  to  get  'firsts;' 
but  the  real  character  of  tho  College 
as  a  whole  ro£u  and  fell  with  tlio 


character  of  tho  senior  men.  And 
now,  having  prepared  you,  gentle 
rcailcr,  to  exi)ect  some  changes  in 
St.  Anthony's,  I  shall  go  on  with 
my  story,  if  I  may  f-o  call  those 
rough  anci  rambling  sketches. 

Hal  left  has  got  his  '  first,'  and  left 
the  Co'lege.  llo  is  ordained,  and 
married  to  a  young  heiress  some- 
where in  Devonshiro.  Tip  has  l)0- 
taken  himself  to  the  law,  and  is  in 
chambers  in  the  Temple,  where  ho 
jiractises  forensic  oratory  ujion  hia 
clerk,  a  youth  of  fonrtee  n  yeans.  I 
visited  him  one  day,  and  tho  clerk 
having  mislaid  the  lemon  intended 
for  our  ))iinch,  gave  an  opjiortunity 
for  the  di.-plny  of  Tip's  rhetoric. 

*  May  it  please  your  Liidship,*  he 
Ixgan,  with  a  defcreulial  bow  to  me 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


71 


then  turning  to 'the  chair  intended 
ior  the  reception  of  clients,  as  jet  in 
perspective,  '  Goutleinen  of  the  jury, 
the  prisoner  who  stands  cowering 
and  conscience-stricken  in  the  dock 
before  you,  hiis  p!eadt;d  guilty  to  a 
crime  that  is,  I  may  truly  say,  with- 
out parallel  in  the  annals  of  the  law 
— a  crime  so  heinous  that  it  is  not 
provided  against  l>y  any  statute  nor 
even  by  any  precedent  in  the  com- 
mon law  of  this  realm.  This  cri- 
minal of  tender  years  has  poisoned, 
so  to  speak,  the  social  gla^s,  for  he 
has  robbed  it  of  half  its  charm.  lie 
has  roused  malignant  ami  vindictive 
feelings  in  the  bieast  of  his  indul- 
gent employer ;  for  what  has  he 
done?  He  has  mislaid  that  em- 
ployer's lemon.  Whether  his  Lord- 
ship will  consider  this,  gentlemen, 
as  a  felony,  or  a  petty  larceny,  or  as 
criminal  negligence  merely,  I  cannot 
tell;  but  1  am  sure  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  it  is  a  gross  misde- 
meanour, and  one  which  would 
justify  his  Lordship  in  vii^ifiog  the 
piiscmcr  with  the  utmost  ligour  of 
the  law.  Get  anotlier  lemon,  you 
young  dog,  or  I'll  f-entence  you  to 
penal  servitude  in  the  coal-hole  for 
the  term  of  your  natural  life.'  So 
much  for  Tip. 

Baxter  having  been,  to  the  grief 
of  himself  and  his  friends,  floored 
by  the  examiners  for  '  greats,'  is  still 
a  member  of  the  College,  and  since 
Hallett  left,  has  been  captain  of  the 
boat  club,  with  "Vere  for  secretary. 
To  Wingfield  and  myself  nothing 
particular  has  happened,  except  that 
■we  have  fallen  in  love  and  out  again 
more  than  once,  and  our  zeal  for 
boating  has  grown  with  our  whisk- 
ers. It  is  February  now,  and  row- 
ing is  going  on  in  the  f-ame  business- 
like way  as  heretof jre.  One  even- 
ing, at  the  beginning  of  the  month, 
Baxter  gave  a  wiue  to  certain  of  his 
intimate  friends,  myself  among  the 
number.  In  the  middle  of  the  even- 
ing Dick  Harris  appeared  — no  very 
uncommon  circumstance  at  a  con- 
vivial meeting  in  College. 

*  A  letter  tor  you,  sir,'  said  Dick, 
addressing  Baxter,  'from  India's 
coral  strand,  where  Greenland's  icy 
mountains  roll  down  their  golden 
sand,  you  know,  sir.' 

'  What  d'ye  mean  ?'  said  Baxter ; 


'you're  not  Kcrewcd  at  this  early 
period,  I  hope.  It's  a  precis  )us  shaky 
list,'  he  continued,  glancing  at  the 
letter.  'Hallo!  "Via  Jiarscilles." 
Why,  it  can't  bo,  yes,  by  Jove !  it  is ; 
it's  Charlie  Thornhill.' 

'  Hurrah !'  saiil  Vero ;  '  let's  hear 
what  the  dear  old  boy  says.' 

'  Well,  he's  been  ill— fever  or  dy- 
sentery, or  sometlaing  -  so  he's  got 
leave  for  a  year,  and  he's  coming 
home.  I'll  read  you  a  bit  of  what 
he  says  :  "  I  shall  be  in  Fngland  at 
the  end  of  February,  ami  can't  make 
up  my  mind  whether  to  go  home 
straiglit,or  to  run  up  to  Oxford,  and 
see  you  all  first."' 

'  Just  like  the  jolly  old  brick,'  said 
Vere. 

'"I've  managed  to  keep  up  my 
rowing  a  httle,"'  Baxter  read  on; 
'  "  and  if  I'm  not  quite  out  of  form, 
perhaps  you  could  find  me  a  humble 
place  in  the  Eight  ouce  more." ' 

'Yoicks!  Hark  to  him  there!' 
broke  in  Macleane.  '  That  ought  to 
put  the  steam  into  you  E  ghtsmen. 
Won't  the  St.  x^nthonj's  colours  cut 
down  the  field,  and  go  in  winners 
by  any  number  of  lengths  after  this ! 
I'll  lay  an  eten  pony  we  go  head  of 
the  river  this  year.' 

'  Hear,  'ear  !'  respondc  d  Dick 
Harris,  who,  not  having  been  yet  in- 
vited to  take  his  usual  glass,  was 
lingering  wistfully  near  the  table. 

'  Hallo,  Dick,  what  are  you  wait- 
ing for  ?' 

'  Oh,  just  give  him  a  glass  of  port.* 

'  There  you  are,  Dick.  Now  then, 
your  sentiment.' 

"Ere's  the  'ealth  of  the  St. 
Anthony's  Eight,'  replied  Dick, 
promptly,  'coupling  with  it  the 
name  of  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  is  now 
returning  from  sojournit)g  in  a 
foreign  land  to  the  arms  of  this  ve- 
nerable College,  founded  by  the 
pious  and  munificent  Anthony  Bar- 
nard o'  blessed  memory,  in  anno 
Domini  1495.'  And  with  that  down 
went  the  port,  and  Dick  vanished. 

'By  George!'  exclaimed  Baxter, 
'only  let's  see  Charlie  Thornhill's 
straight  back  in  the  boat  once  more, 
and  I  rather  think  we'll  make  the 
ship  travel,  eh  Maynard  ?' 

'I  believe  you,  my  boy!'  was  my 
fervent  reply,  as  I  left  the  room. 

The  summer  term  came  round. 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


Have  you  ever  seen  Oxford,  reader  ? 
Yes,  you  spent  a  clay  there  in  tlie 
autumn;  it  was  a  damp,  dull  day, 
very  likely,  with  perliups  a  quiet 
fhizzle  on  ami  off.  You  thought 
tlie  plaee  strikiupr,  certainly,  and 
unlike  any  you  had  heeu  before,  but 
dreary,  dinpy,  disiual  to  a  depreo. 
Ah,  well !  eoine  again  in  May,  when 
the  skies  areMueand  the  trees  in 
their  bright  young  green  ;  when  the 
sun  throws  lights  and  shadows  about 
the  grey  old  towers  and  quadrangles, 
and  gleams  and  glitters  on  the  broad, 
calm  river;  then,  if  you  don't  own 
yourself  enraptured,  you're  a— well 
I'd  rather  not  say  wliat  1  think  of 
you.  Of  ooiuve  Edinburgh  is  more 
romantic,  London  is  graneler,  I'aris 
is  more  gloriously  gay ;  but  for  calm, 
stately  lieaiity,  give  rue  Oxford  in 
the  month  of  May. 

Ah !  but  none  but  an  Oxford  man 
knows  all  the  bliss  of  an  Oxford 
May;  that  time  when  you  dream 
over  your  book  under  the  chestnuts 
in  the  College  garden,  or  lie  on  big 
cushions  in  a  punt  moored  in  a 
shady  creek  of  the  Cherwell,  dressed 
in  easy  tiannels  and  straw  hat,  with 
a  mellow  Lopez  in  yolir  mouth  ; 
when,  in  the  cool  evening,  ycu  stroll 
with  the  friend  of  your  bosom  under 
the  elms  ulong  the  Broad  Walk,  and 
watch  the  moonlight  falling  on 
Magdalen  tower,  and  talk  romance 
al)out  that  girl  with  the  velvet  eyes, 
that  you  fell  in  love  with  in  the 
Easter  vac.  Yes,  none  but  an  Ox- 
ford man  knows  all  those  blissful 
moment.s.  And  tlien  there  are  other 
pleasures  still,  that  are  only  known 
to  the  rowing  man.  It  is  pleasant, 
certainly,  to  be  well  in  at  the 
wickets,  to  hit  fivers  to  long-off,  and 
make  scientific  'draws' to  leg,  and 
then  to  revel  in  strawJHjrrieB,  and 
cider-cup,  and  slierry-cobSler,  and 
those  otlur  delicious  luxuries  that 
are  forl>i<Men  to  the  meml)er  of  a 
College  Light;  but,  for  real  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  put  mo  in  training. 
Let  me  rise  bright  and  early  to  a 
cool  tub  and  a  fre.>^h  walk  rouml  the 
parks,  ciit  my  juicy  steak,  brown 
without,  ro-y  within,  with  a  real 
JJritish  appLtite.  Let  a  sharp-trot- 
ting j>oii^\  draw  mo,  in  the  sultry 
afternix)!!,  to  the  Magdalen  (iroun*!, 
to  watch  'Oxford  v.  M.C.C. ;'  and 


when  the  sun  gets^ow  give  me  my 
daily  row  with  a  crew  that  know 
their  woik  and  do  it ;  let  mo  come 
in  to  my  frugal  supper  and  my  pint 
of  good  ale  with  a  sense  of  having 
earned  it,  nnil  go  to  bed  in  the  cou- 
.sciousnes-s of  fidl  and  jjcrfict  health, 
and  you  may  oiler  me  all  the  Ha- 
vannalis  that  ever  were  smoked,  and 
all  the  iKiverages  that  ever  were 
brewcii,  from  Mo.«elle-cup  to  gin- 
sling,  and  1  won't  so  much  as  cast 
a  look  of  love  on  them.  Yes,  Ox- 
ford, in  the  May  Terui,  is  a  paradise 
of  many  ]ileasures ;  liut,  to  my  mind, 
to  be  in  pi-rfect  training  is  the  high- 
est of  them  all. 

Well,  the  .summer  term  came 
round.  Our  Eight  was  in  practice, 
and  we  were  to  tro  into  training  in  a 
few  days;  but  Thornhill  had  not  yet 
ajipoared.  lie  had  reaehed  England 
rather  later  than  was  expected,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  home  his  family 
would  not  hear  of  his  going  to  Ox- 
ford till  after  Easter;  but  ho  had 
promised  to  come  and  row  in  the 
Eight,  and  we  knew  he  would,  fa- 
mily entreaties  and  every  other  ob- 
staele  notwitlisfaiding.  And  sure 
enough,  one  nioming  as  Baxter  and 
I  were  at  lunch  toj-'etlur,  the  door 
opered.  and  Tlionihill  stood  before 
us.  We  both  uttired  a  shout  of 
delight,  and  Baxter  rushed  to  the 
door. 

'  Aha,  ha,  my  dear  old  skipper, 
how  are  you?  Shake  hands,  old 
man,  ha,  ha!'  laughed  Laxter,  fairly 
hugging  Thornhill  in  the  ecstasy  of 
his  joy.  'By  Jove!  I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you.  Ha,  ha,  how  are  you  ?'  I 
had  never  been  Baxter  so  excited  be- 
fore. 

'  Oh  !  all  right,'  returned  Thorn- 
hill, as  soon  as  he  could  speak,  for 
this  greeting  of  Baxter's  had  touched 
him  not  a  little.  '  How  are  jou, 
IMa^nard?'  he  added,  shaking  me 
warmly  l)y  the  hand.  '  I  am  so  jolly 
glad  to  see  you  again,  Baxter,  old 
fellow.  You've  grown  some  more 
whi.sker,  eh'?  And  jou're  in  splen- 
did'condition  all  round,  too;  it's  a 
treat  to  look  at  >ou.' 

'Well,  I  believe  I'm  ]>retty  well; 
but  you  look  mther  pulltd  down.' 

'  iJo  I  ?  Well,  two  or  three  fevers, 
one  on  top  of  HUolher,  do  take  off  a 
little  of  one's  extra  tlesli.     You  see 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


73 


it  was  touch  and  go  with  mo  once 
or  twice.  However,  I'm  sound  as  a 
bell  now,  and  ready  for  anything. 
What  about  the  Eight  ?' 

'  Well,  I  think  it  will  do  now 
we've  got  our  old  skipper  back. 
We've  not  quite  settled  the  stroke- 
oar  yet.  Maj^nard,  there,  has  been 
performing  hitherto;  but  we  agreed 
that  if  you  felt  up  to  the  work,  we'd 
ask  you  to  take  it.' 

'  You  do  me  great  honour,  Baxter, 
I'm  sure,'  said  Thornhill,  t^eriously, 
but  evidently  highly  pleased  ;  '  but 
I've  no  doubt  Maynard  is  a  much 
better  stroke  than  I  should  be  now. 
bf  course  I'm  well  enotigh,  but 
then,'  he  added,  reluctantly,  '  I've 
not  had  much  practice  lately,  and—' 

'  Oh,'  I  interrupted,  '  do  let's  have 
you  stroke.  We  shall  all  row  twice 
as  well  behind  you.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Baxter, '  you  must  try 
it,  old  man,  at  all  events.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Thornhill,  highly 
pleased.  '  I  suppose  it  won't  do  for 
a  freshman  hke  me  to  ditobey  my 
captain.' 

'  Of  course  not.  Well,  that's 
settled ;  and  now  walk  into  the  lunch. 
Help  yourself  to  sherry.' 

Thornhill  turned  out  to  be  as 
good  in  a  boat  as  ever ;  and  with  his 
long,  dashing  stroke,  we  improved 
so  much  that  by  the  day  tlie  races 
began  we  were  justly  considered 
.  'ic  best  boat  on,  and  our  going  liead 
of  the  river  was  held,  on  all  hands, 
to  be  'a  moral.' 

'  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  it,' 
said  an  old  'Varsity  oar  to  Thorn- 
hill. '  Oriel  is  fishy  for  l;ead  boat; 
Exeter  is  only  so  so;  B  N.C.*  must 
come  down;  and  Trinity  will  drop 
into  your  mouth  the  first  night :  you 
must  go  head.' 

'I  should  say  so,  too,'  replied 
Thornhill,  '  if  it  were  not  fur  our 
confounded  luck.  However,  we'll 
see  if  St.  Anthony's  pluck  can't  beat 
St.  Anthony's  luck  for  once.  Good- 
bye, old  fellow.' 

Wednesday,  the  21st  of  May,  was 
the  first  day  of  the  races,  and  a 
magnificent  day  it  was;  hot,  bright 
sunshine  all  the  morning,  and  then, 
as  the  sun  fell,  a  cool  breeze  spring- 
ing up  and  making  the  perfection  of 
a  summer  evening.  Towards  seven 
*  Brasenose  (College. 


o'clock  crowds  of  specfafors  began 
to  pour  down  to  tlie  river,  and  lined 
the  bank  on  cither  side.  Tlio  barges, 
with  their  various  flags  flying,  and 
filled  with  ladies  in  brifj,lit  and  airy 
costumes,  shone  gaily  in  tlie  setting 
sun,  while  the  brass  band  of  the 
Volunteers  did  its  best  to  putcveri'- 
body  in  spirits  by  cxecu'ing  lively 
music  in  the  liveliest  possible  man- 
ner. Most  conspicuous  for  its  array 
of  beauty  was  the  University  barge, 
and  conspicuous  among  that  array 
was  a  group  of  four  ladies,  in  whom 
Thornhill  had  a  particular  interest. 
The  group  consisted  of  his  mother, 
his  two  sisters,  and  another  young 
and  lovely  lady,  whom  Thornhill 
was  to  carry  with  him  to  India  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  as  his  '  bright 
and  beauteous  bride.'  They  were 
early  at  the  river ;  and  while  the 
crews  hung  aliout,  waiting  for  the 
time  to  start,  Thorrdiill  introduced 
Baxter  and  me  to  his  party  on  the 
barge.  Baxter,  who  was  quite  equal 
to  the  task  of  amusing  two  ladies,  at 
least,  devoted  himself  to  Mrs.  Thorn- 
hill and  her  eldest  daughter,  while 
I  did  my  best  to  win  tbe  good  graces 
of  Miss  Florence  Thornliill.  After 
we  had  exchanged  ?ouie  pieliminary 
remarks  about  Oxford,  the  river,  &c., 
she  said,  in  an  abrni^t  way  that  I 
found  was  natural  to  her,  '  Don't 
you  feel  very  nervous  about  the 
race?  I  do,  though  I  k no 'v  you'll 
do  well;  but  Charlie's  so  made  up 
his  mind  that  you'll  be  head  of  the 
river  this  year ;  I  do  hope  he  won't 
be  disappointed.' 

'  You  can't  hope  so  more  than  I 
do,  IMiss  Thornhill ;  but  we've  had 
such  bad  luck  over  and  over  again 
that  there's  no  knowing  where  we 
shall  be  at  the  end  of  the  races.' 

'  Head  of  the  river,  I  say,'  replied 
Florence  Thornhill,  as  proudly  as  if 
she  were  announcing  a  triumph 
already  achieved.  '  I'm  siu-e  if  you 
all  row  as  hard  as  my  brother,  you 
can  do  it ;  and  you  will  — won't  you  ?' 

'  I  will  for  one,'  replied  I ;  and  I 
meant  what  I  said. 

'Of  course  you  like  Charlie — 
everybody  does ;  he's  so  kind- 
hearted,  isn't  he?  and  so — "  plucky," 
don't  you  call  it  ?' 

•  Yes,  that's  right,  Miss  Thorn- 
hill; he's  all  pluck  every  inch  of 


71 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


him,  and  if  tliere  ever  was  a  stroke 
fit  to  row  Lead  of  tho  river,  he's  Iho 
man.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  Florence  Thorn- 
liiil,  eapcrly,  'and  he  iriU  row  bead, 
you'll  see;  I  know  he  will.' 

'  Mayiiiu-.l,  ity  lK)y,'  intorrnptcd 
Biixtcr,  '  wu  imi.st  bo  off— it  wants 
fourteen  minuU'.s  to  seven.' 

'  AH  li.^lit,  Iiu  ready.  Good-bye, 
Miss  Thoinliill !' 

'  Good  l>\e,  Mr.  Maynard !  Mind 
you  row  hard  and  make  your  bump 
to-ni^ht.' 

'  It  won't  bo  liis  fault  if  wo  don't, 
Miss  Tlioni)  ill,' said  Baxter;  and  in 
my  own  miud  1  bugged  him  for 
tho?e  words. 

Baxter  had  managed  to  inveigle 
Mr.'^.  TlKiriiliillanil  her  eldest  daugh- 
ter out  of  u  gliive  each  on  the  prett  xt 
that  they  (the  gloves),  especially 
Mrs.  Thornh ill's,  would,  if  worn  in 
his  hat  during  the  race,  put  the 
steam  into  him  Iteyond  everything. 
And  so  he  afterwards  declared  tliey 
did,  al'icit  both  hat  and  gloves  lay 
at  tlio  bottom  of  tho  boat  through- 
out the  race. 

That  lii>t  night  everything  went 
well  ;  we  got  a  splendid  start,  and, 
whether  it  was  tlie  gloves,  or  Flo- 
rence Tliondiili's  word'^,  or  Charlie 
Thuriihills  da-liing  i)luck,  or  all 
these  to^uthor,  tluvt  did  it,  certain  it 
is,  that  th  it  night  our  boat  '  wilked 
the  water  like  a  thing  of  life,'  over- 
huiled  Trinity  in  the  llr.t  four  huu- 
drcd  yards,  and  in  three  minutes 
after  starting  tho  bump  was  made 
and  we  were  floating  quietly  un  ier 
the  baidc,  watching  the  struggle  of 
the  other  bdats  as  they  tugged  past, 
with  a  ftelii'g  of  calm  triumphant 
joy  not  to  lie  descriiiod  in  words — it 
can  only  l>c  compared  to  the  Itli.ss  of 
the  lover,  newly  acceiited  by  the 
lady  of  his  love;  at  hast  I  think 
that  comes  nearer  to  it  than  any- 
thing cite.  Nevertheless  I  must 
own  I  found  my  happiness  capable 
of  addition,  when  Florence  Tliorn- 
hill  said,  her  eyes  flashing  with  cx- 
citenunt  — 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Maynard,  isn't  it  splen- 
did? Oidy  thno  more  bumps  to 
make,  and  you'll  bo  head  of  the 
river.' 

'  Yon  tohl  us  to  row  hard,'  said  I, 
'  and  wo  did.' 


'  Was  it  Ivoansc  I  told  you? 
Yes,  I  do  bulievo  it  wivs.  I'm  so 
glad,  so  glad  tor  Charlie's  sako,  you 
know  -  aud  for  yours  too,'  she  added, 
and  her  eyes  seemed  to  go  right 
through  mo  and  como  out  on  tho 
other  side  :  from  that  moment  I  felt 
it  Would  Ijo  a  privilego  to  die  for 
litr  at  any  minuto,  in  other  words,  I 
was  in  love  with  Florence  Thorn- 
hill.  But  of  that  hereafter.  Love 
is  quite  a;,'aiiist  the  rules  of  training, 
so  whatevtr  I  may  feel  I  shall  say 
no  ni'jre  about  it  till  tho  races  are 
over. 

We,  tho  St.  Anthony's  crow,  walked 
down  arm-in-ariu  to  the  next  even- 
ing's race,  full  of  confidence  and 
high  spirits.  All  our  friends  seemed 
to  smile  on  us,  and  we  smiled  on 
our  friends  and  on  each  other,  and 
tried  to  look  friendly  at  the  crows 
above  us,  and  tried  not  to  look  tri- 
umphant over  tho  0  below.  Our 
preliminary  pa  Idle  promised  well; 
we  Were  all  sound,  wind  and  liml), 
and,  as  Baxter  cheerily  remarked, 
never  hail  we  been  in  better  fettle 
all  round  than  wo  were  by  seven 
o'clock  that  evening, 

'Give  us  a  uood  start,  old  fellow,' 
said  Tliondiill  to  Macleanc,  who 
held  our  stern  rope,  us  we  lay  under 
tho  shore  waiting  for  tho  sigual- 
gua. 

'  All  right,  my  boy,  don't  fret 
yourself,  we'll  effect  a  capital  start; 
and,  tell  you  what,  just  you  make 
the  running;  cut  out  tlic  pace  at 
first,  stick  close  to  their  quarters, 
and  frighten  'em,  that's  tho  plan; 
you'll  catch  'em  in  the  Gut.' 

The  minu'es  went  l)y,  told  aloud 
by  lli(3  timekeei)cr,  and  then  the 
seconds,  first  by  tens — then  by  fives 
— then  one  by  one,  and  then— the 
gun,  and  we  were  off.  It  was  a 
cajjilal  start;  the  boat  dragged 
through  the  water  for  the  first  two 
strokes,  aud  then  sprang  otY  like  a 
rneehor.^e.  At  once  tho  shouts  on 
the  bank  told  us  that  wo  wore  going 
into  Braseno.so  hand  over  liand. 
Never  had  there  been  such  a  crowd 
to  cheer  us  as  there  was  that  night, 
and  the  ro  irs  of  triumj)li  hoarse  and 
loud  were  frightful.  'Anthony's!' 
'Anthony'Nl'  'Well  rowed!'  'Go 
on,  you  fellows!'  '  ilurrah  !'  '  Well 
ro-o  owed!' 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


75 


On  we  dashed  :  our  boat  was  toss- 
ing in  the  wash  of  Brascnose ;  I  could 
hear  their  whistle,  as  t!ie  cox.  called 
on   his  men ;  we  were  close  upon 

them,— now  for  it .     Suddenly 

there  was  a  great  lurch  through  the 
boat,  a  shout  of  horror  on  the  bank, 
and  we  seemed  to  stand  still,  in  a 
second  wekuew  the  reason:  Thorn- 
hill's  oar  had  snapped.  '  Throw 
your  weight  on  the  bow  oars,'  I 
heard  him  say  to  Wingfield,  and  in 
another  instant  he  had  dived  into 
the  water.  The  boat  heeled  over, 
and  then  riglited,  and  we  tried  to 
get  together  once  more.  It  was  a 
desperate  case,  but  we  set  our  teeth, 
and  swore  deeply— at  least  I  did — 
that  Trinity  should  not  catch  us : 
they  were  a  long  way  off,  bat  they 
began  to  gain  fast  now. 

'  Steady  now,  and  stick  to  it,*  sung 
out  Wingfield :  and  so  we  did,  but 
still  Trinity  came  on  and  their  nose 
got  nearer  and  nearer.  Saunders's 
Bridge,  they  were  still  a  length  off. 
'  Steady,  Anthony's,  and  you'll  do 
it' — 'Well  rowed.  Seven!' — 'Keep 
her  steady.'  And  then  came  the 
shouts  close  behind,  '  Trinity !' — 
'Now  Trinity!'  —  'Quicken  up!' 
Trinity  spurted  hard,  and  came  up 
like  lightning.  Our  Seven  spurted, 
too,  like  a  man,  but  the  sudden 
change  of  stroke  threw  us  all  abroad 
—the  boat  lurched  and  staggered 
horribly,  the  Trinity  bows  ran  up 
our  stern,  Wingfield  held  up  his 
hand,  and  it  was  all  over  with  us. 

I  did  not  see  Florence  Thornhill 
at  all  that  evening.  She  was  dis- 
tressed, I  heard,  almost  to  tears  at 
the  result  of  the  race,  so  I  was  glad 
on  the  whole  that  we  did  not  meet. 
All  the  next  day  the  crew  were  in  a 
state  of  gloomy  ferocity,  thirsting 
for  vengeance,  and  we  went  down 
to  the  start  in  the  evening  much  in 
the  frame  of  mind  of  savages  start- 
ing on  a  scalping  expedition.  Short 
work  we  made  with  Trinity,  but  it 
was  a  very  stern  joy  that  we  felt  in 
bumping  them  now — the  joy  of  re- 
gaining a  lost  right,  not  at  all  like 
the  serene  delight  that  followed  the 
first  bump. 

Five  races  more  to  come,  and 
three  bumps  to  make. 

Saturday  evening  came,  and 
brought  a  very  tough  race;    but 


our  minds  were  made  up,— the 
black  and  yellow  colours  of  Jirase- 
noso  came  down  at  last,  and  we 
rowed  in  third  on  the  river.  Now 
for  Oriel,  and  then  the  last  tussle  of 
all  with  those  big  brawny  Exeter 
fellows,  and  then  the  headship  of 
the  river,  and  the  smiks  ot  Florence 
Thornhill.  So  I  prophesied  to 
myself  that  Saturday  night;  but 
Monday  evening  came  and  went, 
and  we  were  no  higher  than  before. 
We  were  desperate,  and  at  sujjper 
that  night  there  was  a  coimcil  of 
war,  which  ended  with  Baxter  say- 
ing— 

'  My  dear  fellows,  if  we  don't  get 
Oriel  to-morrow,  I'll  put  my  head 
in  a  bag  for  the  rest  of  my  life.' 

And  we  did  get  them;  it  was 
tough  work,  Imt  we  did  it,  and  felt 
like  giants  refreshed  with  wine  after 
it  was  done. 

Next  evening  I  walked  down  to 
the  river  with  the  Thornhills,  and 
Florence  said — 

'  Isn't  it  the  happiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  make  a  bump?  It 
must  be  so  splendid  to  fetl  that 
you've  done  something  f  u-  the  ho- 
nour of  your  College.  I  do  so  wish 
I  could  row  like  you.  Can't  I  do 
something  to  help  the  boat  on?  Do 
tell  me !' 

I  should  like  to  have  replied,  that, 
if  she  would  then  and  there  intimate 
that  she  cared  two  straws  about  me, 
I  would  undertake  to  bump  Exeter 
by  the  prowess  of  my  single  arm. 
What  I  actually  said,  however,  was 
stupid  and  quite  inadequate  to  the 
occasion — 

'  Jf  we  have  your  good  wishes,  as 
I  believe  we  have,  nothing  could 
help  us  better.' 

'  Oh,  you  knoiv  you  have  all  the 
good  wishes  I  can  think  of,  but  I 
want  to  do  something.  Will  a  vinai- 
grette be  any  use? — it  might  refresh 
you  just  before  the  race,  you  know ; 
— or,  stop, — I'll  put  some  of  this 
eau  de  Cologne  on  your  handker- 
chief—that will  do  you  good  I 
know.' 

'  Dear  me !  what  on  earth  have  I 
done  with  my  handkerchief  ?' said  I, 
searching  diligently  every  pocket 
but  the  one  in  which  I  knew  it 
to  be. 

'Oh!  never  mind/  replied  Flo- 


Boating  Life  at  Oxford. 


renco  Thnrnliill,  '  anytliinp  will  do. 
Here,  I'll  j)ut  snmo  on  niino,  and 
lend  it  to  joii.     IJo  you  iiiiud?' 

As  may  be  Rnpiioscii,  1  did  not 
'mini,'  luid  rcccivt'd  tlie  liaiidker- 
cliicf  with  all  rovcTcncL;  and  {jrrati- 
tndo,  liK'O  a  knifjjiit  of  ohkn  time. 
Oh,  and  it  was  a  potent  spell,  tliiit 
little  pceiited  handkerchief,  —  the 
charm  worked  well. 

Shall  I  describe  the  race  of  that 
evening  V  No,  I  have  described  too 
many  already  ; — let  Florence  Thorn- 
hill  tell  it,  as  she  saw  it,  and  as  she 
told  it  to  me  afterwanis,  for  I  was 
in  the  boat,  you  know,  and  saw 
notliinp  all  the  time  but  a  bit  of 
ironmould  on  the  jersey  of  the  man 
in  front  of  nje. 

'  Oh,  I  thought  that  starting-gim 
wasnevtr  going  to  fire,'  she  began  ; 
'  I'm  sure  it  was  late.  I  thought 
how  nervous  you  must  all  1)6,  waiting 
so  long  in  the  boat:  several  times  I 
thouglit  I  heard  it,  and  horrified 
mamma  once  by  saying  "  Now 
they're  olT!"  quite  loud.  At  last  I 
could  see  the  men  on  the  bank  a 
long  way  off  beginning  to  run,  and 
directly  came  the  crack  of  the  gun, 
and  a  low  pound  of  shouts  far  away. 
We  couhi  only  see  the  cro^vd  at  first, 
winding  in  and  out  along  the  bank, 
just  like  a  long  serpent,  and  then 
the  poumls  grew  louder  and  louder, 
and  though  I  couldn't  see  the  boats, 
I  felt  sure  ours  was  gaining.  Then 
I  saw  the  rowers'  heads  above  the 
bank,  and  then  Exeter  came  round 
the  corner,  and  then  our  boat  close 
upon  them  I  thought,  and  I  said 
ijuite  loud  again,  "  They'll  bump 
them,  I'm  sure  they  will !"  and  a 
laly  nuir  me,  not  at  all  a  young 
lady,  waa  very  angry,  and  said,  "  I'm 


sure  they'll  do  no  such  thing .'"  Oh, 
I  could  have  beaten  her !  I  could 
see  everything  i)!ainly  now,  and  I 
saw  you  getting  nearer  and  nearer; 
I  knew  Charlie  was  putting  on  a 
spurt,  and  I  said,"  Well  done, Char- 
lie, that's  right,  I  know  you'll  bump 
them,"  just  to  spite  the  old  la^ly. 
Oh,  how  those  Ext^ter  nun  did  shout 
to  their  boat !  and  they  did  row  hard 
I'm  Certain,  for  I  saw  the  oar.s  go 
dii)ping  in  and  out  all  together  like 
wings  moving  faster  and  faster,  :ind 
they  kept  away  from  you  bravely. 
Oh,  what  terrible  sliouls  there  were 
then,  mad  yells  they  were;  I  trem- 
bled all  over ;  there  you  were  almost 
close  to  us,  and  all  but  touching 
Exeter.  I  saw  Charlie  tugging  witli 
all  his  miuht;  I  thought  he  would 
have  killed  himself,  and  Mr.  Wing- 
field  blowing  that  .shrieking  whistle 
in  his  face  all  the  time.  Oh,  it  was 
fearfully  exciting.  I  felt  a^  if  I 
should  like  to  jump  into  the  water, 
and  I  called  to  Charlie  with  all  my 
might.  I  don't  think  any  one  heard 
me,  there  was  such  a  noise,  but 
Charlie  looked  as  if  he  did,  for  he 
rowed  faster  still,  and  then,  just  as 
you  got  close  below  us,  I  saw  our 
boat  run  right  against  the  rudder  of 
ICxeter,  and  then  I  knew  it  was  all 
ri),'ht,  and  I  really  jiuupcd  for  joy. 
Mamma  says  I  shunted  "  Hurrah!" 
I  dare  say  I  did  — I  don't  know. 
And  now  you're  head  of  the  river, 
don't  you  feel  proud,  Mr.  Maynard?' 
I  had  felt  i)roud  l»efore,  but  I  was 
far  )irou(l(  r  then,  as  I  met  Florence 
Thoinhill's  bright  eyes,  and  thought 
that  in  them  1  could 

'  Ol-covpf, 
She  fell  tbat  I  was  uot  unworlby  to  love  iwr,' 


1g% 


77 


PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

'  THE  STRONGER  WILL  !' 


BLANCHE  LYON  suffered  the 
others  to  advance  propositions 
respecting  tlie  manner  and  the 
means  to  be  employed  in  getting 
down  to  the  village  to  look  at  the 
cottage  that  was  to  let.  It  w-s  not 
at  all  in  her  way  to  seek  to  add  con- 
fusion to  chaos  by  opposing  what 
was  not  even  half  established,  and 
pointing  out  the  weakness  that 
would  immediately  assert  itself. 

'  The  distance  is  nothing— let  us 
walk.  I  have  walked  it  in  comfort 
once  already  to-day,'  Mrs.  Lyon 
said,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  after 
a  comfortable  luncheon,  and  fan- 
ning herself  in  a  way  that  was  ex- 
pressive of  fatigue. 

'  Let  us  have  the  waggonette  and 
all  go  together,'  Frank  Bathurst 
proposed.  He  felt  that  there  would 
be  a  difficulty  about  getting  to  be 
alone  with  Blanche,  and  he  did  not 
care  about  being  alone  with  any  one 
else  just  then. 

*  1  don't  see  that  there  is  any 
necessity  for  your  all  putting  your- 
selves out  of  the  way  to  go  down,' 
Edgar  Talbot  said ;  '  Trixy  and  Miss 
Lyon  will  perhaps  walk  down  with 
me,  and  you  could  wait  here  for  us 
to  come  back  and  fall  in  with  your 
plans,  whatever  they  are,  for  the 
afternoon.' 

'  I  should  like  to  go  dovra  again  and 
point  out  one  or  two  little  things,' 
Mrs.  Lyon  said  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  felt  that  whatever  she  did  the 
others  would  not  sufficiently  appre- 
ciate her  excellence  in  doing  it — '  I 
should  lilie  to  go  down  again  and 
point  out  one  or  two  little  things 
that  are  not  as  I  should  like  them 
to  be  in  the  house.'  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  appeal ingly 
as  she  spoke,  as  if  she  rather  ex- 
pected them  to  deny  her  even  this 
small  boon  of  tiring  hei'self,  for  no 
good  end,  more  completely  than  she 
was  already. 

'  Walking  is  out  of  the  question  for 
you,  mamma,'  Blanche  said,  firmly. 

'  Then  my  waggonette   plan  is 


the  best,'  Mr.  Bathurst  said,  with  a 
sort  of  '  that  settles  it'  smile. 

'  You  drive,  I  suppose  ?'  Blanche 
said,  persuasively,  looking  at  him 
as  he  pushed  his  chair  back  and 
got  up. 

'  Yes.     I  will  drive.' 

*  And  Miss  Talbot  will  have  the 
place  of  hnnour  by  your  side,  and — 
you  are  letting  me  arrange  it  all  — 
intending  to  coincide  with  my  ar- 
rangement, are  you  not  ?' 

'  Unriuestionably,'  he  replied. 

*  And  mamma  and  Mr.  Talbot 
will  sit  just  behind  you.  I  shall 
ride :  you  will  lend  me  the  mare  you 
offerecl  to  give  me  ?' 

Her  accents  were  very  seductive 
in  their  subtle  sweetness  as  she  ad- 
dressed him ;  but  for  all  that  subtle 
sweetness  they  grated  on  his  ears. 
She  had  portioned  out  the  places 
of  all  save  Lionel  Talliot ;  and  she 
designed  to  ride,  and  Lionel  Talbot 
would  be  free  to  go  with  her. 

*  Of  course  I  let  you  arrange  it 
all.  I  must  propose  one  alteiation, 
however,  which  is  far  from  being 
an  amendment,'  he  said,  gallantly ; 
'  the  mare  gave  my  wrist  an  awk- 
ward jerk  this  morning.  I  doubt 
whether  I  could  hold  those  vonng 
horses  together  or  not.  Lai  had 
better  drive  them,  and  I  will  ride 
with  you.' 

He  came  nearer  to  her  as  he 
spoke,  his  fair  face  flushed,  and  his 
blue  eyes  dancing  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  they  were  all  per- 
fectly alive  to  the  root  of  his  desire 
for  this  change.  His  infatuation  for 
Blanche  amused  himself  so  much 
that  he  had  not  the  smallest  objec- 
tion to  its  amusing  other  people  in 
a  lesser  degree.  He  was  as  wilful 
as  a  wcman  about  carrying  his  own 
point,  but  Blanche  opposed  him 
with  a  still  deeper  wilfulness. 

'  Let  me  look  at  your  wrist,'  she 
said,  and  then  when  he  came  close 
and  extended  his  hand,  she  laid  her 
slender  white  fingers  firmly  on  the 
part  which   he  had  declared  had 


'8 


Plai/iug  for  Iligh  StalccB. 


liccn  given  an  awkward  jerk.  '  I 
will  ptrciifrtlun  it  for  jon,'  she  saici 
in  a  low  voice,  bimliii.','  her  liaiitllcir- 
cliii'f  ti>;litl,v  ronuil  ir  as  she  t-])i)ke; 
'  jileascdo  not  frusfnite  my  politics, 
wlialcvcr  they  may  be  ;  drive  as  you 
proiiiistd!' 

Slie  spoke  very  liuriiedly  in  fear 
of  bein.ir  overheanl  by  the  others, 
wlio,  as  is  nsual  in  most  cases,  mis- 
understood her  manner  an  1  motives, 
and  believed  lier  to  be  flirting  at 
him,  her  cousin  host,  with  vigour 
and  determination.  Rut  tliongh 
she  sjKtke  htirriedly  slic  spoke  for- 
cibly, and  Frank  felt  that  it  be- 
hoved him  fo  attend  to  her.        * 

'  Come  nearer  to  the  light,  that 
you  ni'iy  see  to  tie  my  bandage  be- 
comingly,' he  said,  laughing,  draw- 
ing her  after  him  to  the  window. 
'  Tliafs  well!  Now  Blanche,'  he 
muttered,  '  what  is  it?  you  mean 
going  alone  ?' 

'  1  do  not  mean  going  with  yon  at 
any  rate.  Ethave  yourself,  Frank; 
hands  tliat  are  appendages  to 
sprained  wrists  ouglit  not  to  have 
the  power  ot  pressing  so  painfully  ; 
let  my  nand  go,  sir;  and  pronutc 
me  you  drive.' 

'  1  ]ironuse,'  he  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  '  anytliing  you  like; 
1  will  order  tlie  horses.' 

As  he  left  the  room  there  was  a 
general  movement  made,  a  sort  ot 
feint  among  the  party  ol  gomg  to 
get  ready,  and  it  chanced  tliat  Lionel 
'falbot  and  Blanche  were  brought 
near  together. 

'  Tie  blunder  of  narrow  door- 
ways,' Blanclic  langhel  as  Lionel 
fifepped  back  for  her  to  pass  him, 
and  she  stepped  back  courteously 
at  the  same  moment;  stejis  wliich 
cau.«c  1  their  detention  in  the  room 
alone  af;er  the  others  hud  left  it. 
'  Am  I  to  ride  alone,  Mr.  Talbot?' 
she  said,  suddenly. 

'  You  pccmcd  to  prefer  the  groom's 
escort  to  Frank's,'  he  rri)lied. 

'I'did  notliing  of  the  kind,  and 
the  groom  has  never  l)ecn  men- 
tioned. Will  you  ride  wilh  me? 
That  is  a  plain  and  straightforward 
way  of  ])utting  it.' 

'I  had  Utter  not,  precious  as  the 
office  of  taking  charge  ot  you,  it  only 
for  a  short  time,  would  be  to  mc — 
I  had  better  not' 


'  Why  ?'  slio  said.  And  tlicn  she 
linked  lior  fingers  together,  and  let 
her  hands  fall  down  in  front  of  her. 
She  washoldiiig  her  head  upiiroudly, 
but  her  eyes  were  down-cast,  hidden 
liy  their  lasJKs. — 'Why?'  she  re- 
peated, as  he  looked  at  her  most 
lovingly,  but  spoke  no  word. 

'Why?'  he  echoed.  'Because — 
will  you  iiavo  it — my  reason?' 

'Yes,  1  will  have  it  — 1  will  hear 
it.  ion  shall  tell  me  so  i)lainly 
that  there  can  be  no  mistake  al)0ut 
it,'  she  said,  exciteiily. 

'  I  had  l)ett(  r  not  take  charge  of 
you,  because  the  otlice  is  too  pre- 
cious to  ho  held  with  impunity  to 
the  holder  for  only  a  short  time. 
Forgive  me,  i\liss  I, yon,  you  almost 
forced  the  truth  Iroin  me.' 

Even  as  he  asked  for  her  forgive- 
ness in  broken,  subdued  tones,  she 
came  nearer  to  him,  with  a  soft, 
loving  triumph,  that  was  inexpres- 
sibly thrilling  to  him,  in  her  face 
and  bearing. 

'  I  have  forced  the  truth  from 
you  for  no  low,  vain  end,'  she  said ; 
and  her  hands  were  extended  to 
liim— were  taken— were  pre.=sefl  to 
his  heart,  betore  Lionel  Talbot  re- 
membered that  he  was  acting  a  very 
imprudent  part. 

'  Becau.se  I  love  you  so,'  he  said, 
passionately — '  because  1  love  you 
60,  It  would  be  l>etter  that  1  should 
never  bo  with  you  acrain,  unless  I 
may  bo  with  you  lor  ever.' 

'  And  is  there  anything  to  prevent 
that  being  the  cupoY  she  whis- 
pered. And  then — she  was,  tor  all 
the  l)rfght  bravery  ot  lur  mind  and 
manner,  a  woman  endowed  with 
that  inlinitely  caressing  way  that 
cannot  be  withstood  —tin  n  she  low- 
ered her  head  a  little,  and  sighingly 
lit  it  find  a  resting-place  on  his 
shoulder. 

'  You  feared  your  fate  too  much, 
Lionel,'  she  said. 

'  It  was  too  bright  a  one  for  mo  to 
dare  to  iiope  to  touch  it.  Blanche! 
be  wise  in  time,  my  darling;  think 
ot  what  you  are  relinquishing  before 
you  sutler  mc  to  let  my  whole  heart 
go  out  to  you  in  so  full  a  wny  that 
I  may  never  get  it  back  and  live.  I 
liave  so  little  to  offer  you  liesidcs 
that  iicart,  sweet  child— Frank  bas 
Eo  much.' 


Playing  for  High  Stakes. 


79 


'Which  will  be  surrendered  to 
Trixy  before  long.  Perhaps  you 
will  submit  to  my  loss  ot  Ilaldon 
with  a  bettor  grace  if  it  is  Tiixy's 
gam?'  She  asked  this  ia  a  li^ht 
tone ;  but  she  added,  sol  'crly  cuougti, 
an  instant  alter,  '  Never  regret  your 
want  of  anything  lor  niy  salce, 
JLionel ;  it  poor  Edgar  had  suc- 
ceeded as  he  believed  and  lioped  ho 
should  succeed  in  his  veiituies,  it 
would  have  come  to  Uiis  between 
you  and  me, and  I  should  liave  basked 
idly  in  the  sun  of  that  success,  and 
been  very  happy.  As  it  is — well,  I 
have  it  in  me  to  fight  lor  fortune 
with  you  against  the  world.' 

She  looked  so  jojously  confident, 
so  radiantly  satisfied  with  tlie  exist- 
ing state  of  things,  so  hewitchingly 
liopeful  about  the  tut  are,  that 
JLionel  felt  that 

'  Poor  wisdom's  chance 
Against  a  glance ' 

was  weaker  than  ever.  However 
much  more  brilliant  her  fate  would 
have  been  if  she  had  given  her  heart 
to  his  friend  instead  of  to  himself, 
the  intoxicating  truth  that  her  heart 
was  entirely  his  now  came  home  to 
him  unalloyed  by  a  shadow  of  doubt. 
Still  he  strove  to  render  his  gra?p 
upon  her  looser,  less  that  of  '  lord 
and  lover'  for  a  moment,  as  he 
said — 

'Take  care,  Blanche!  lean  give 
you  up  now,  and  never  blame  you 
in  word  or  thought  for  having  got 
me  to  tell  you  that  it  will  be  death 
to  me  to  do  so ;  but  five  minutes  of 
this,  and  no  earthly  power  shall 
make  me  give  you  up— you  hear 
naeV 

'  And  mark  you,  too,'  she  said, 
holding  her  htad-  far  back,  and 
shaking  it  winningly,  with  an  air  of 
satisfied  acquiescence  in  las  decision 
that  was  strangely  soothing  to  liira. 
'I'ou  shall  have  the  five  minutes: 
as  for  the  opportunity  of  defying 
earthly  powers,  i  am  afraid  your 
tenacity  will  not  be  put  to  the  test, 
,  unless  mamma  intervenes.'  And 
then  they  both  laughed. 

'  Mamma's  intervention  may  pos- 
sibly li...^tfn  the  union  ot  the  prin- 
cipal powers,'  he  said. 

'  Mamma  is  sate  to  be  funny  about 
it,'  Blanche  said,  gravely,  'it  goes 


without  saying  that  she  will  be 
that;  she  will  view  the  matter  from 
the  melancholy  point  of  view  if  not 
from  the  laclirymose  for  a  while, 
but  it  will  all  come  right  by-and- 
by.' 

'  Yes,  of  course  it  will,  if  we  make 
our  own  arrangements  and  ahide  by 
them,  without  suffering  let  or  hin- 
drance from  others.' 

'  I  hear  them  coming  down  stairs,' 
Blanche  exclaimed,  starting  and 
blushing ;  '  do  let  me  go  and  put 
my  habit  on— and  ride  with  me, 
will  you  ?' 

'Will  I  not?'  he  answered,  very 
fondly,  as  she  got  her.«elf  away 
through  the  doorway  which  she 
had  declared  just  now  'to  be  a 
blunder.' 

'  We  don't  need  a  groom;  I  am 
going  to  ride  with  Miss  Lyon,' 
Lionel  said  to  Frank  Bathurst,  when 
Blanche  came  down  and  joined 
them  just  outside  the  hall-door, 
where  the  waggonette  and  a  couple 
of  saddle  -  hor.~es  were  waiting. 
Lionel  said  it  with  that  assumption 
of  intense  indifference  which  gene- 
rally first  bfctrays  to  others  the  fact 
of  a  man  having  utterly  surrendered 
to  the  one  of  whom  he  does  not 
speak  as  he  feels. 

'Are  you  go?  very  well,'  Frank 
said,  rather  coldly ;  and  then  he 
turned  away  without  offering  to  help 
Blanche  on  to  her  horse.  The  men 
were  friends,  in  the  bt  st  sense  of  the 
word ;  but  it  is  a  hard  thing  for 
both,  when  friends  love  the  same 
woman. 

'Earthly  power  number  one  is 
unpropitious,'  Blanche  said,  in  a  low 
tone,  as  Lionel  stooped  for  her  to 
put  her  foot  in  his  hand;  'believe 
me,  though,  Lionel,  I  would  not 
speak  of  it  if  I  were  not  sure  that 
with  him  it  is  a  passing  cloud.  Frank 
will  not  be  angry  with  us  long.' 

'  I  hope  not.  IIow  sweet  you 
look  in  your  riding-gear!'  Lionel 
replied.  Friendship  stands  such  a 
poor  chance  of  being  ably  con- 
sidered, when  love  puts  in  his 
claim. 

It  was  hard  upon  Mr.  Bathurst ; 
it  was  very  hard  upon  Mr.  Bathurst 
to  have  to  see  that  pair  go  off  to- 
gether, and  to  be  doomed  himself 
to  play  the  part  of  charioteer  to 


GO 


Playing  for  Uigh  Stakes, 


Mrs.  Lyon.E'Tpnr,  nnd  Teatrix;  for 
it  isa  fact  t!  at  a  woman  in  lovc,niid 
at  the  same  time  sure  that  the  one 
she  loves  love  ssonieKoilycIsc,  is  very 
much  at  a  diMidvnutftpc.  The  whole 
of  tliat  liltlu  si'cne  of  startiiip;  got 
stamped  in  viviiily  upon  poor  Trixy's 
iiiind.  I'.l.in 'liu's  absohito  power 
over  boUi  the  man  who  loved  her 
ami  the  man  slio  loved,  were  painful 
sights  to  the  ^;i^l  who  had  no  appa- 
rent po'.v(  r  over  any  one  just  at  the 
time.  Miss  Lvi  n's  i)lan  of  making 
one  man  ia<li.inMy  happy  l>y  riding 
with  him.  an.l  aumhor  man  dolefully 
dull  hy  lot  driving  with  him,  was 
a  gift  thati  not  all  I'rixy's  Christian 
charity  coidd  compel  her  to  think 
good.  The  brother  would  have 
liLon  suriciidiifd  with  a  good  grace 
to  the  brill. ant  rival;  but  human 
nature  must  cease  to  be  it.self  bcforo 
a  lov(  r  can  l>e  given  up  graciously. 

Their  way  lay  through  such 
bowery  lanes  ;  between  such  high- 
bankeil,  rirh,  gardendiko  hedges.  It 
was  the  time  of  roses,  ami,  conse- 
quently, the  time  for  most  of  our 
fairest  wild  flowers  to  bloom.  The 
lx?auty  of  the  uncultivated  sloping 
parterres  thiough  which  tliey  pas-ceel 
made  matttr  for  talk  for  them  for  a 
time;  but  i)ie-eiitly,  when  the  fast 
trot  of  the  cobs  had  carricel  the  wag- 
gonette so  far  alieael  of  them  that  it 
was  Fnfe  to  s])i  ak,  and  even  to  look, 
a  slight  ]irt.s.-,ure  on  the  near  rein 
brought  Li'inel's  horse  closer  to 
D.'anche's,  and  he  faid — 

'Conceiiliiient  is  always  bad:  if 
we  fairly  undirsfand  each  other, 
darling,  it  S(  ems  to  mo  to  bo  only 
fair  to  the  others  that  tbey  should 
understand  us  too.' 

'  Uurried  tlisclosurcs  are  as  bad 
a?  concealment,'  she  said.  '  We  do 
fairly  understand  eai-h  other,  Lionel ; 
of  course  we  do  ;  but  why  make 
talk  al>out  that  understatiding  be- 
fore it  is  nee  dful  ?  Circumstance  is 
a  mighty  monarch  ;  about  ourselves 
we,  and  we  only,  have  to  consult 
Lim  ;  meanwhile  we  had  better  not 
con.sult  other  people,  I  think.' 

As  she  spoke,  t-\w  lifted  up  her 
hand  to  switch  the  air  with  her 
whip.  Lionel  cauglit  the  hand  and 
held  it. 

'  I  could  have  gone  on  BulTering 
Biltnce  to  reign  as  to  my  feelings 


about  yon,  if  yon  had  not  let  mo 
speak  to  you  as  I  have  spoken  this 
morning;  hut  now  that  course  is 
clo-ieel  to  mo.  I  cannot  look  upon 
you  as  my  future  wife  in  secret.  My 
love  has  gone  out  to  you  as  I  never 
thought  it  could  go  to  any  woman. 
You  ha^^e  accei)ted  the  love;  you 
must  submit  to  tlie  show  of  it.' 

*Sul>mitl  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  accept  all  show  of  it  with 
pride  and  phidiiess.'slie  said, softly; 
'  but  fur  you,  Lionel,  pvowed  en- 
gagements fetter  a  man  who  is 
lighting  with  the  worM.  People 
will  not  overlook  the  fact  of  success 
being  es-eiitial  to  him  because  he  is 
going  to  lie  married;  and  so,  often 
the  hand  that  is  ])laying  honestly 
and  loving'y  for  fortune's  favours, 
is  rendereel  unsteady  or  weak  by  the 
too  keun  ob.^ervation  bent  upon  it 
play  freely,  dearest,  for  a  time,  at 
least.' 

'  Freely,  but  not  secretly,'  he  said. 

'  You  have  it  in  you  to  bo  very 
rash.' 

'I  have,  when  I  am  very  fond. 
Eash,  do  you  say?  No,  Blanche,  in 
this  case  tlie  rashness  would  be  ia 
concealment.  If  I  shrank  from  pro- 
claiming tliat  you  had  promise<l  to 
be  my  own,  you  would  l)e  the  first 
to  condemn  my  weakness  in  thus 
shrinking;  and  yet,  women  are  so 
consistently  inconsistent  that  you 
urge  me  to  do  so.' 

'For  our  mutual  good,  I  am 
sure.' 

'  ilow  would  it  be  for  our  mutual 
good  that  wo  should  he  held  in 
check — cut  off  from  the  confidence 
that  should  cheer  us?' 

'  My  cowardice  is  not  for  my.'^elf,' 
she  answered,  blushing  brightly. 
'  I  only  fi  el  that  for  you  it  might  be 
better  not  to  Ix!  supi)0'ied  to  have 
the  obligation  laid  upon  yeni  of 
having  tu  make  money  enough  to 
support  a  wife  for  a  time;  but 
if  jou  will  risk  the  drawbacks, 
Lionel ' 

'  You  will  agree  to  their  all  know- 
ing that  you  arc  going  to  be  my  ^ 
wife,'  he  interruptetl ;  'and  the 
sooner  they  know  it,  and  the  .sooner 
it  is,  the  bttter.  I'e  sure  of  one 
thing  — I  am  not  going  to  let  you 
out  iidotlie  world  again  without  mo. 

She  looked  up  at  him  gratefuyii. 


1 


Playing  for  High  Slakes. 


81 


proudly,  fondly.  '  Oli,  Lai,  it  was 
only  for  )  our  sake  I  couusuileJ  cun- 
cealmeut  for  a  time ;  for  my  own  I 
thank  you  for  your  decision,  and 
accept  it,  as  I  will  every  one  you 
make  henceforth  without  appeal.' 

As  she  finished  her  sentence  they 
turned  into  the  one  little  crooked 
street  of  the  village  in  which  the 
cottage  that  was  to  let  was  situated, 
and  fell  under  the  observation  of 
the  party  in  the  waggonette,  which 
was  pulled  up  to  wait  for  them. 

'  I  wish  Blanche  would  not  lag  be- 
hind in  that  way,'  Mrs.  Lyon  said, 
rather  peevishly.  It  seemed  to  the 
good  old  lady  a  wicked  waste  of 
a  golden  opportunity  that  her 
daughter  should  linger  behind  with 
a  comparatively  poor  artist,  when  a 
rich  landowner  was  ahead.  Before 
any  one  could  reply  to  her  the  pair 
on  horseback  came  up  at  a  sharp 
trot,  and  something  in  Blanche's 
manner  told  Frank  Bathurst  that 
the  '  game  was  gone.' 

Need  it  be  said  that  as  soon  as  this 
conviction  smote  him  he  accepted 
the  situation  with  the  blithe  amia- 
bility that  characterized  him,  and 
became  on  the  spot  their  warmest 
ally.  From  the  bottom  of  his  bright, 
warm,  wide  heart  he  had  wished  for 
Miss  Lyon  for  his  wife ;  but,  since 
he  could  not  have  her  through  some 
distortion  of  her  own  judgment,  he 
was  admirably  well  contented  that 
his  friend  should  be  successful.  At 
any  rate  she  would  not  drop  out  of 
his  orbit,  and  be  lost  to  his  beauty- 
loving  sight.  It  would  still  be 
within  liis  power  to  hear  her  talk, 
to  see  her  move  about  with  that 
subtle  seductiveness  of  movement 
which  no  other  woman  possessed. 
The  link  of  friendship  should  never 
be  broken  between  the  two  families, 
and  Blanche  would  still  be  free  to 
charm  him,  as  only  so  clever,  fasci- 
nating, and  beautiful  a  woman  could 
charm  him.  He  watched  her  as 
Lionel  helped  her  from  her  horse, 
and  when  she  reached  the  ground 
he  managed  to  make  her  eyes  meet 
his.  For  a  moment  or  two  they 
looked  unflinchingly,  and  when  each 
slowly  turned  away  from  the  other's 
gaze  the  understanding  between 
them  was  as  honourable  and  com- 
plete as  if  it  had  been  legally  drawn 

VOL.  XII. — NO.  LXVII, 


up  and  ratified.  They  were  to  be 
friends  free  and  unfettV  red  in  man- 
ner and  in  mind,  without  a  back 
thought  or  regret  about  anything 
between  them. 

'  One  moment,'  he  muttered,  as 
they  were  passing  into  the  cottage 
garden  in  the  rear  of  the  rest,  and 
he  put  his  hand  upon  hers  as  he 
spoke — '  one  moment.  My  wrist  is 
strong  enough  now,  you  see;  it 
does  not  tremble  as  I  tell  you  I  see 
what  has  happened,  and  rejoice  in 
it,  dear  Blanche,  for  my  old  friends. 
God  bless  you  both !  You  will  be 
very  happy.' 

'And  so  will  you,-  Frank?'  she 
half  asserted,  half  interrogated. 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  gaily ;  '  I  don't 
think  it  is  in  me  to  be  a  despairing 
swain.' 

'  If  you  did  despair,  I  should  say 
you  were  blind  and  void  of  all  taste,' 
she  answered,  hurriedly,  as  the  others 
looked  back  at  them  from  the  al- 
ready opened  door,  and  they  had  to 
hasten  their  steps  to  rejoin  them. 

It  was  a  charming  cottage.  The 
'two  or  three  little  drawbacks' 
which  Mrs.  Lyon  had  anxiously  vo- 
lunteered to  point  out  were  no 
drawbacks  at  all  in  the  eyes  of  the 
young  people.  When  looked  upon 
in  cold  blood  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  it  was  an  irregular  and 
defective  abode ;  for  the  drawing  and 
diniijg  rooms  had  been  added  to  the 
original  structure,  and  the  original 
structure  had  the  air  of  disapprov- 
ing of  the  additions  and  of  holding 
itself  aloof  from  them  as  much  as 
possible.  The  ceilings  had  given 
way  in  one  or  two  of  the  rooms,  and 
the  kitchen  range  was  a  monstrous 
rusty  enigma  to  Mrs.  Lyon ;  but  de- 
spite these  trifles  the  cottage  was 
charming,  for  it  was  prettily  papered 
and  it  had  French  windows,  and  its 
walls  were  festooned  by  roses,  and 
its  garden  sloped  away  in  privacy 
to  the  woods. 

'  It's  a  perfect  little  paradise,' 
Beatrix  said  aloud ;  and  the  thought 
how  sweet  it  woulcl  be  to  share  such 
a  paradise  with  Frank  Bathurst. 

'  It  is  just  the  house  for  a  pair 
bf  artistic-minded  young  mariied 
people,'  Frank  himself  f^aid,  gravely. 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Lyon,  what  is  your 
verdict  ?  Edgar  Talbot  asked. 


82 


Phtjttiff  for  Tli'jJi  S/n^rs. 


'I  only  wish  it  was  poinp:  to  l)c 
my  lioiue,'  that  la<ly  answcnd,  villi 
the  l>riglit  admiration  tliat  caiiio 
from  Ik  r  frolmpovtr  confiiitnt  a'lout 
it's  Tit'wr  lii'iii^  her  homo. 

'Then  1  may  as  well  tell  yoii  at 
once  what  1  should  shnrtly  liavo 
Ixi'on  compello<l  to  tell  you  in  any 
case:  lam  poinp  to  l>rtai<  np  my 
J.ondon  cstaMishmcnt — why  1  need 
hardly  tell  yon — and  I  should  bo 
^'lad  if  yon  will  continue  to  alTord 
my  sister  tho  same  countenance  and 
protection  here  which  you  conpented 
to  <:ivc  her  in  London.  May  I  hope 
that  it  will  l>e  so,  Rlrs.  Lyon?' 

'  Live  here!'  she  exclaimed. 

'  Yes ;  live  here  for  a  time  at 
lca.st.' 

'  -Mamma,  you  can  have  no  better 
plan  to  propose,'  Hlanche  said  re- 
jtroachfully ;  and  then  Mrs.  Lyon 
shook  her  head  dolorously,  and  .said 
'Oh,  no;  of  course  not!*  adding 
suddenly — 

'  Would  it  not  be  far  lx;tter  to  co 
into  nice,  quiet,  convenient  lodgings 
in  Ivondon,  wliere  every  comfoii 
would  be  supplied  to  us,  than  to 
live  here:  consider  the  butcher.' 

'  I  really  must  confess  to  consider- 
ing my  own  and  my  sister's  conve- 
nience, before  tho  butcher,'  Edgar 
said,  laughing. 

'  I  mean,  think  of  the  distance  we 
are  from  him;  not  but  what  I  shall 
Ix'  very  happy  to  stay  here,  if  you 
all  wish  me  to  do  it ;  but  how  are 
■we  to  manage ;  there  is  no  furni- 
ture !'  and  Mrs.  Lyon,  as  she  spoke, 
lo<jked  frona  one  to  the  other  as  if 
she  would  ask  their  pardon  for 
mildly  appealing  against  that  want 
f>f  consideration  of  them  which  made 
them  expect  her  to  joyously  acqui- 
esce in  the  prospect  of  living  in  an 
empty  house. 

•  rlie  furniture  shall  be  sent  down 
from  Victoria  Street,  if  you  will 
agree  to  live  Ik  re  for  at  least  a  year 
alter  it  is  furni.shed,'  Mr.  Talbot  re- 
]died. 

•  Then  it  will  not  fit,'  Mrs.  Lyon 
said,  like  a  woman. 

'  Nevermind  its  fitting  the  house,' 
Ldgnr  replied,  like  a  man,  '  we  will 
^ettle  it  when  it  comes.' 

'  What  am  I  to  do  alxiut  tho 
mnge/'  Mrs.  Lyon  said,  dejectedly. 
'  I  am  sure  I  shall   Ikj  delighted  to 


remain  with  Mi.ss  Talbot  here,  or 
anywhere  else,  for  a  year;  but  I 
could  wish  that  range  altered,  or  I 
shall  never  have  a  moment's  ])eace  ; 
"  h  it  forayoung  married  couple,  with 
artistic  minds!" — well,  it  may  l)c  fit 
for  such  ;  but  I  know  wtiat  tho 
C(K)king  will  bo  if  that  range  i.sn  t 
looked  to.' 

'  Let  us  take  the  house,  and  ask 
Trixy  to  stay  with  us,'  Lionel  whis- 
pered ;  '  and  let  your  mother  go 
Itack  to  the  delightful  London  lodg- 
ings, where  she  can  l)e  free  from  the 
burden  of  that  range.'  But  Mis8 
Jiyon  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  this  sug- 
gestion. She  was  not  made  of  the 
materials  to  marry  in  haste,  with 
the  possibility  lx;fore  lier  that  cir- 
cumstances might  cause  the  man 
she  married  to  repent  at  leisure. 
Accordingly,  she  only  shook  her 
head  in  reply  to  him;  and  then 
said — 

'  Tho  greater  good  of  the  greater 
number  is  the  point  to  becon.sidered 
by  all  of  us;  Mamma,  this  will  lie 
the  best  place  for  you  to  live  in 
with  Trixy.' 

'  Where  shall  wc  all  find  room  ?' 
Mrs.  Lyon  said,  querulously. 

'I  may  not  be  at  home  for  long,' 
Blanche  replied. 

'I  will  have  no  more  govemcss- 
ing,'  Mrs.  Lyon  said  emidiatically. 
'  Vou  shall  not  go  out  in  that  way 
again.' 

Blanche  laughed,  and  sliook  her 
head. 

'  I  promise  you  I  will  not  attempt 
to  do  it,'  she  said.  '1  am  more 
ambitious  in  these  days;  you  shall 
know  in  what  way  if  I  succeed.' 

'  And  you  will  tell  me<even  if  you 
fail,  will  you,  my  own  Blanche?' 
Lionel  whisjx'red,  as  they  went  out 
together,  and  he  prepared  to  put 
her  on  her  horse.  But  Blanche  in 
rei)ly  to  this  only  Innt  her  brow 
with  that  look  of  suflden  stedfast- 
ness  which  had  a  habit  of  coming 
over  her  face,  as  she  replied — 

'I  won't  promi.se  tliat,  Lionel; 
failures  are  not  nice  things  to  talk 
alxjut.' 

'  Why  venture  anything  on  your 
own  account?  why  not  trust  your- 
self wholly  and  solely  to  mo?  there 
is  a  great  deal  wanting  in  your  love 
while  you  refu.sc  to  do  this.' 


Ejeria. 


83 


She  was  stung  to  quick  speech  by 
his  supposition.  '  You  know — you 
must  know  that  T  would  brave  any- 
thing, relinquish  anything,  do  any- 
thing, for  the  sake  of  being  your 
wife,'  she  said  ;  '  but  I  won't  consent 
to  fetter  you:  to  impoverish  and 
lessen  you  in  any  way  would  be 
frightful  to  me.  Lionel,  I  would 
rather  crush  my  love  than  do  it.  I 
will  crush  my  love,  if  it  comes  to 
that :  do  you  believe  me  ?' 

'  No,'  he  said,  as  he  slung  himself 
up  on  his  horse. 

'  No,  Lionel !' 

'I  do  not  believe  that  my  own 
love  for  you  is  so  weak  as  to  be 
incapable  of  overcoming  such  scru- 
ples. Oh,  child !  you  are  mine  now 
to  have,  and  to  hold  against  the 
world:  even  against  yourself.  Don't 
let  me  hear  any  more  about  your 


"  fettering,"  or  "  impoverishing,"  or 
"lessening"  me.  When  you  are 
my  Avife  I  will  teach  you  that  your 
being  that  is  ample  compensation 
for  everything  else.' 

She  began  conning  the  lesson  he 
was  willing  to  teach  her,  with  such 
a  pleased,  happy  look  on  her  face 
as  she  turned  it  toward  him. 

'  Oh,  Lionel !  after  all  my  wise, 
prudent  speeches,  what  will  you 
think  of  me,  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
love  you  desperately,  darling,  des- 
perately ?' 

'  Think !  that  I  am  surer  of  you 
than  I  was  before  you  gave  yourself 
out  to  speak  the  truth,'  he  said, 
fondly ;  *  there  must  be  no  going 
back  from  this,  Blanche  ;  we  are 
bound  to  play  for  fortune's  fa- 
vours: to  fight  the  battle  of  life 
together.' 


EGEEIA :  AN  ACROSTIC. 

Egeria  Diva:  pure  as  morn,  sweet  as  eve. 

E  oboes  that  people  with  a  lute's  lorn  breath 
G  ray  walls,  mute-mouldering  in  wave-washed  death; 
E  xquisite  dreams,  sighing  through  tranced  sea-shells, 
E  icli  memories  breathing  of  the  quiet  deeps ; 
I  n  shadowy  bay,  the  ripple  of  star-sown  seas ; 
A  utumn's  low  stir  of  noonday-laden  bees ; 

D  rip  of  charmed  oars,  when  every  nigh  sound  sleeps 
I  n  the  still  ocean,  lulled  by  sprite-like  spells, 
V  ain  strife !     Eare  lips,  your  heavenly  melody 
A  11  emulous  Nature's  strains  doth  matchlessly  outvie. 

T.  S.  0. 


09 


Si  Two  Colours, 


TWO  COLOUKS. 

LITTLE  Lily,  tell  mo  how 
This  change  has  come  about. 
Prithee!  stay  a  whilie  now 
And  say  how  it  fell  out. 

Say  how  it  was  you  ever  came 

In  this  l)ad  place  to  be? 
Say  why  you're  startiiis;  at  your  name  ? 
^Ylly  you're  afraid  of  me  ? 
Not  Lily  now,  but  Hose,  slie  said — 
A  little  change  from  white  to  red. 

Now  tell  mo  who  it  was,  poor  child, 

(It  hardly  can  be  true) 
Who  from  your  father's  roof  beguiled 

His  only  hope,  in  you. 
Oh!  Lily— it  is  passing  sad 

To  see  you  in  this  silken  glare, 
You  used  to  be  so  simply  clad. 
Your  linen  frock  so  clean  and  iidr. 
'Tis  but  a  little  change,  she  said — 
A  little  change  from  white  to  red. 

I  remember,  when  a  little  one. 

Your  mother  thought  you  pule  ; 
Half  in  earnest,  lialf  in  fiui, 

Said  your  name  .should  tell  the  talo. 
That  kindly  mother  never  thouglit 

Tho.se  tiny  cheeks  that  met  her  gaze 
Would  e'er  1x3  willingly  distort 

With  such  a  painted  blaze. 
Again  a  httle  change,  she  said — 
A  httle  change  from  white  to  red. 

So  she  passed  me,  one  of  many 

Stories,  walking  to  and  fro. 
And  it's  surely  useless  any 

More  of  this  our  tale  to  know. 
By-and-by  there'll  come  another 

Change  to  Lily,  as  to  you  ; 
Then  will  Death,  a  second  mother. 

Wipe  away  the  guilty  hue. 
Oh  !  far  less  pitiful  that  sight, — 
That  little  change  from  red  to  white. 


85 


HALF  AN  HOUR  IN  A  SERVANTS'  REGISTRY  OFFICE. 


HAYING  occasion  recently  to  re- 
pair, by  appointment,  to  one  of 
those  places  which  have  of  late  be- 
come quite  '  institutions '  in  this 
country,  a '  Servants'  Registry  Office,' 
I  was  let  in  for  half  an  hour's  enter- 
tainment in  what  passed  within  my 
hearing,  though  it  presented  pro- 
bably but  a  sample  of  the  daily  pro- 
ceedings in  an  establishment  of  the 
kind. 

I  had  come  to  meet  a  young  per- 
son whose  services  I  was  anxious  to 
secure  from  the  strong  terms  in 
which  she  had  been  recommended 
to  me  ;  but  as  I  was  before  the  time 
appointed,  and  she  was  considerably 
after,  1  was  placed  in  the  position  of 
an  unintentional  witness  of  what 
transpired  in  the  interval. 

Let  me,  tirst  of  all,  observe  that 
the  '  office '  in  question  was  kept  by 
a  female,  a  married  woman  of  well- 
merited  reputation  for  respectability 
and  judgment,  who  had  now  been 
doing  business  for  years  in  that  line, 
aw],  it  was  said,  had  made  a  good 
thing  of  it.  She  had  her  stated 
hours  of  business,  and  did  nothing 
else.  Formerly  she  had  kept  a  shop, 
a  greengrocer's  on  a  small  scale, 
carrying  on  the  two  businesses  to- 
gether ;  but  she  found  that  the  two 
lines  did  not  somehow  suit  one 
another;  that  the  supplying  her 
customers  with  apples  and  cabbages 
interfered  so  with  her  'domestic* 
transactions  that,  favouring  no 
doubt  the  one  that  was  most  lucra- 
tive, she  disposed  of  her  stock-in- 
trade,  converted  her  shop  into  what 
she  termed  her  office,  with  an  ante 
or  waiting-room,  pulled  down  the 
old  sign-board,  and  replaced  it  by 
another  which  proclaimed  to  the 
passing  world,  in  gilt  and  blue,  that 
t)ie  undivided  attention  of  the  pro- 
prietress was  devoted  to  her  '  re- 
gistry.' 

She  was  a  person  eminently 
adapted  for  the  calling  she  had  se- 
lected. In  her  dress  she  was  fault- 
lessly neat  and  simple.  Never  did 
you  see  upon  her — at  least  in  busi- 
ness hours— so  much  as  a  super- 
fluous bit  of  ribbon,  far  less  any- 
thing approaching  the  gay  or  flashy. 


Her  manner,  without  being  dry,  was 
thoroughly  business-like  and  the 
same  to  all  her  customers.  Whether 
it  were  peeress  or  poor  curate's  wife, 
whether  it  were  the  employer  of  a 
dozen  servants  or  only  of  one  of  all 
work,  she  preserved  consistently 
the  same  civil  demeanour  to  every 
one,  so  that  all  came  away  with  a 
correspondingly  good  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Prim  worthy. 

The  young  woman  whom  I  ex- 
pected not  having  arrived,  Mrs. 
Primworthy  begged  that  I  would 
take  a  seat  in  the  ante-room  already 
referred  to,  which  accordingly  I  did, 
hoping,  as  I  did  so,  that  my  deten- 
tion might  not  be  long. 

Tliis  apartment  evidently  served 
as  Mrs  Primworthy's  sitting-room 
when  she  was  not  pursuing  her  pro- 
fessional avocations.  There  was  a 
convenient  window  in  the  dividing- 
wall  thiough  which,  when  seated, 
you  could  take  a  panoramic  view  of 
the  so-called  office.  This  interme- 
diate window  had  been  left  opon  ;  so 
that  not  only  could  I  see,  if  I  wished, 
those  in  the  next  room,  but  I  could 
also  hear — in  fact  I  could  not  help 
hearing — their  conversation. 

Having  accordingly  taken  a  chair, 
I  readily  accepted  also  the  offer  of 
a  newspaper,  and  for  a  few  moments 
it  engaged  my  attention ;  but  I  soon 
found  reading  to  be  impossible, 
owing  to  the  distractions  of  the  ad- 
jacent audience  chamber,  so  I  gave 
up  the  attempt. 

My  attention  was  first  drawn  ofif 
on  the  arrival  of  a  lady  in  her  car- 
riage and  pair,  who,  having  alighted, 
proceeded  to  relate  to  Mrs.  Prim- 
worthy  her  pitiable  case.  Her  coun- 
tenance, I  fancied,  bore  a  look  of 
harassment ;  and  as  I  heard  her  dis- 
close the  plight  that  she  was  in, 
I  certainly  did  not  wonder  that 
she  should  evince  something  like 
anxiety. 

'Well,  Mrs.  Primworthy,'  she  be- 
gan, 'I  am  in  great  trouble.  My 
servants  are  all  leaving  me,  and  I  can- 
not imagine  the  reason  why.  When 
I  say  all,  I  mean  all  excepting  my 
cook,  who  came  to  me  about  a  forti- 
night  ago.    1  do  hope  she  will  stay. 


86 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Registry  Office. 


for  really  she  is  invaluable.  But  all 
tlie  rest  Jiave  given  lue  notice,  ami 
that  within  a  day  or  two  of  one 
another,  'i  hey  seera,  without  any 
ransc,  to  have  taken  a  whim  into 
their  hi  ails  to  leave  uie  in  less  tiian 
a  month  from  now.  I  feel  it  so  I 
cannot  tell  you.  When  I  think  of 
the  ingratitude  of  their  beliaviour, 
to  say  notliing  of  the  peri)Iexity 
they  have  jilaceil  me  in,  it  almost 
overcomes  me ;  and  then  we  have 
visitors  coming  to  stay  with  us.  Oh, 
Mrs.  Prim  worthy,  I  am  quite  bcwil- 
deretl  at  the  prospect.' 

'Well,  ma'am,  I'm  exceedingly 
sorry  to  hear  it:  but  you  surely 
don't  mean  to  say  that  all  your  ser- 
vants have  given  warning?' 

'  Yes,  indeed  I  do.  Now  you 
kmw  our  old  nurse  who  has  been 
with  us  fur  years,  and  who  I  sup- 
poscil  was  so  attached  to  the  family 
that  she  could  not  have  endured  the 
thought  of  leaving  us.  Well,  f«he 
was  the  very  lirst,  positively,  to  give 
me  notice.  That  I  thought  bad 
enough.  Then,  one  by  one,  the 
others  followed  her  example.  My 
lady's-maid,  who  suits  me  to  a 
nicety,  an<i  my  housemaid,  and  even 
that  steady  young  man  Jone*,  whom 
I  was  so  thankful  to  you  for  tind- 
ing  f^r  nie,  ho  says  he  must  seek 
another  stnation  too.' 

'  'Tis  certainly  very  trying,  ma'am, 
isn't  it?  I  wonder  whatever  can  bo 
the  cau.cc  of  it  all.  Has  there  bien 
nothing  unplea'-ant  with  them  that 
you  can  think  of,  ma'am?  Servants 
are  really  getting  so  high  and 
mighty  in  their  notions  now,  that 
they'll  scarce  bear  l>eing  spoke  to.' 

'  Oh  dear  no.  There  has  l)een  no 
occasion  even  for  fault-tinding  lately. 
And  it  seems  so  strange,  they  all 
8iy  they  are  so  sorry  to  go,  and 
s|)cak  of  the  kindnr  ssof  their  master 
and  mistress,  \et  they  cannot  think 
of  staying.  I  have  questioned  them, 
and  entreated  them  to  tell  me  what 
is  the  matter;  but  the  only  answi  r 
1  CAW  get  is :  "  Things  is  not  as  they 
used  to  l>e."  But  1  am  not  aware  of 
any  change.  We  treat  them  exactly 
the  .'iame  as  wo  always  have,  and 
they  have  no  complaint^'.  to  make.  I 
have  only  one  condort  amidst  it  all, 
iind  that  is,  my  new  cook,  who  is 
the  best,  1  think,  I  h.ivu  ever  hud. 


says  she  is  quite  comfortable,  and 
lias  exi)ressed  no  wish  to  l«ive  me. 
She  tells  me  also  she  lias  known  of 
servants  elsewhere  l)oing  seized  with 
a  similar  freak,  and  all  giving  notice 
together.  I  think,  she  said,  in  one 
of  the  places  where  she  was  l)cforo, 
they  all  did  so  one  morning.  But  it 
is  fortunate  she  is  not  going  too,  is 
it  not,  Mrs.  Primworlhy?' 

But  Mrs  Frimworthy,  I  noticed, 
made  no  answer  to  this  remark  ;  and 
a  jjcculiar  look  she  put  on  made  me 
fancy  some  suspicion  had  occurred 
to  her.  '  Do  you  know,  ma'am,'  she 
re|)lied,  'I  should  much  like  to  talk 
a  bit  to  your  footman  Jones.  He 
knows  me  well,  and  I  will  reason 
with  him,  and  tell  him  what  I  think 
of  his  conduct.  It  can  do  no  harm, 
ma'am.' 

'  Oh,  you  are  quite  at  liberty  to  do 
so  :  but  I  am  sure  it  will  be  no  sort 
of  use.  Fooli-h  fellow,  he  is  quite 
re.«;olved  to  be  gone  as  much  as  any 
of  them.  You  may  try  wiiat  you 
can  do.  Here,  Jones,'  said  the  la  ly, 
stooping  forward  to  beckon  the  man 
m. 

'  Excu.se  me,  ma'am,'  interposed 
Mr.s.  Piimworthy, '  I  must  ask  jou 
to  be  so  kind  as  to  step  into  the 
next  room,  as  I  think  he  won't  like 
speaking  out  lieforejou;  so  if  you 
don't  mind,  ma'am,  just  taking  a 
seat  in  lure — '  (oi)ening  the  door  of 
the  room  I  was  in). 

I\Irs.  Primworlhy  did  not  fimsh 
her  sentence,  but  showed  the  lady 
in,  and  closing  the  door  again,  sum- 
moned Jones  into  her  pre.senco. 

1  own  I  felt  by  no  means  comfort- 
able on  being  discovered  in  my  re- 
treat, especially  when  its  facilities 
for  ovcrliearing  i)ecamo  appmeiit. 
The  lady  evinced  a  little  surprise  at 
seeing  me,  and  perhaps  felt  some- 
thing more;  but  we  both  remained 
seated,  still  and  silent,  listening  to 
the  convei-siition  l>etweeu  the  foot- 
man and  the  rigistress.  And  now 
wo  had  an  opportunity  of  admiring 
the  shrewd  tact  of  Mrs.  Primworthy. 
Instead  of  opening  a  dinct  fire 
upon  the  man  with  the  straightfor- 
ward impiiry  why  it  was  ho  had 
given  notice,  she  adojjted  the  mas- 
terly Hank  movement  of  expressing 
a  deep  interest  in  the  cook  who  had 
lately  left  the  place,  and  alter  enu- 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  ServaiUs'  llegistry  Office. 


87 


meratinp:  her  various  excellencies, 
all  of  which  Jones  endorsed  to  the 
full,  she  observed  :  — 

'  Yes  indeed,  she  was  what  wo 
may  call  a  good  servant,  and  no 
mistake ;  and  what's  more,  she  was 
a  comfortable  sort  of  a  person  to 
live  with ;  and  I'm  quite  certain, 
Jones,  if  she'd  a  remained  you  never 
would  have  wanted  to  leave  the 
same  as  you  are.' 

'No,  mum,  nor  none  on  us 
wouldn't,  and  so  that's  the  truth,' 
admitted  Jones,  falling  at  once  into 
the  trap. 

*  It  makes  such  a  deal  of  differ- 
ence, ddcsn't  it,  Jones,  when  a  cook 
makes  things  agreeable  in  the 
kitchen.  I  knew  it  was  so.  Ser- 
vants as  has  a  kind  master  and  mis- 
tress don't  all  give  warning  that  way 
without  there  being  a  cause  for  it.' 

*  That  they  don't,  mum,  and  ac- 
cordin'  to  my  notions  servants  did 
ought  to  be  all  of  a  equality  like, 
and  not  one  set  over  the  rest  on  'em. 
It  makes  a  place  beyond  all  bearin', 
that  it  do.' 

I  stole  a  glance  across  at  the  lady, 
and  it  was  really  painful  to  witness 
the  evident  discomfort  which  this 
observation  of  the  footman  occa- 
sioned her.  She  started  as  if  to  rise 
from  her  chair  and  stop  further  dis- 
cussion ;  but  on  Mrs.  Primworthy 
resuming,  she  sat  still. 

*  And  then,  Jones,'  added  the  lat- 
ter, *  I've  always  found  when  a  cook 
do  treat  her  fellow  servants  bad,  it's 
a  thing  she  can't  be  cured  of,  so  it 
isn't  any  use  arguing  with  her  on 
it.' 

'  That's  just  where  it  is,  mum ; 
and  as  I  says,  'taiu't  no  good  any  on 
us  a  tryin'  to  remain.  Her  temper 
be  so  bad,  and  she  be  that  there 
violent,  as  no  one  can't 'bide  in  sight 
of  her.  I'm  sure  I've  always  a 
wished  to  live  peaceable  like  with 
every  one;  but  that  there  woman 
she  won't  leave  none  on  us  alone. 
'Tis  her  natur,  I  expects;  and  so 
sometimes  she'll  be  abusin'  one, 
sometimes  t'other,  and  sometimes 
abusin'  us  all  round.  Such  a  time 
as  I've  had  these  here  last  ten  days ! 
I'd  sooner  list  for  a  soldier.  I'd 
sooner — ' 

Here  Mrs.  Primworthy  inter- 
rupted him.    '  Your  mistress  is  sadly 


put  about,  Jones.  Don't  you  think 
you  could  manage  to  stay  on  till  slio 
was  suited?  and  you  might  havo 
more  time,  j^erbaps,  to  look  out  for 
a  good  place.' 

'  No,  mum  ;  I'm  very  sorry  for 
missus,  but  I  couldn't  stay :  I  be- 
lieve as  it  would  be  the  death  o'  mo. 
I  was  going  to  say  as  I'd  sooner 
break  stones  from  mornin'  to  niglit, 
and  get  my  vittles  where  I  could, 
than  I'd  bide  in  a  place  where  that 
there  woman  was.  If  we  was  a  lot 
of  dogs,  she  couldn't  treat  us  no 
worse  nor  she  do.  'Tain't  me  only, 
either:  every  one  as  comes  to  the 
kitchen  catches  it  from  her  just  the 
same.  If  it's  the  baker  or  the 
grocer's  man,  she  do  fly  at  'em  as  if 
she  was  a  tiger,  axing  them  what 
brings  'em  there,  and  such  like,  till 
some  on  'em  declares  as  they  won't 
come  no  more.  'Twas  only  last 
night  as  the  butcher's  boy  said  some 
one  else  might  come  for  orders,  'cos 
he  shouldn't  come  again.  Never  did 
see  such  a  woman  in  all  my  life: 
she  must  be  abusin'  or  a  scolding 
summut.  Why,  one  day,  if  she 
didn't  take  and  beat  the  poor  cat 
with  the  bastin'  spoon, 'cos  she  hap- 
pened to  come  nigh  the  hastener 
when  she  was  a  roastin',  till  the 
poor  animal  went  limjnn'  off  under 
the  dresser.' 

The  amazement  and  consterna- 
tion of  the  lady,  which  had  been 
fast  fomenting,  here  reached  a 
climax,  and  completely  got  the 
better  of  her.  IJjiable  to  sit  quiet 
any  longer,  she  quickly  rose  from 
her  chair,  and,  presenting  'herself 
again  in  the  oiiice,  put  an  end  to 
the  discussion. 

The  appearance  of  his  mistress 
Jones  took  as  a  signal  for  him  to 
withdraw  ;  whereupon  the  lady  re- 
commenceil. 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Primworthy,  I  have 
overheard  all.  I  really  do  not  know 
how  I  feel !  I  am  amazed  !  I  am 
mortified  too.  How  I  have  been 
taken  in  with  that  woman  !  To  me 
she  is  perfectly  respectful,  appearing 
to  know  her  place  most  thoroughly ; 
and  yet  amongst  the  servants  she 
must  be  a  regular  virago.  Still,  I 
feel  relieved  greatly,  disappriuted 
though  I  am.  I  am  sure  I  have  to 
thank  you  for  the  way  in  which  you 


88 


Hulf  an  TTour  in  n  S  rranffi'  liiijiiitri/  OJjlce, 


elicited  tlio  tnitli  from  Jones,  and 
really  you  deserve  great  credit  lor 
lx!ing  8o  cK'ver.* 

Mrs.  rrinnvorthy  smiled,  with  a 
look  of  m(xlest  satisfaction,  and  re- 
plied— 

'  Wliy,  nia'nni,  when  yon  told  me 
what  the  cool?  had  i-aid  to  you,  I 
suspi'nted  at  once  what  was  the 
matter.' 

'  Well,  I  say,  T  tliink  it  was  very 
clover  of  you.  But  /  atu  greatly  to 
hiaine,  fur,  do  you  know,  1  entirely 
forgot  to  make  any  injuiry  respect- 
ing tlie  woman's  temper,  so  I  am 
justly  jiunished  for  my  own  stupid 
forgctfniness.' 

'  Well,  ma'am,  I  don't  know.  You 
might  not  perhap.s  have  heard  the 
truth,  even  if  you  had  made  that 
inquiry.  You  see,  some  mistresses 
makes  it  a  sort  of  rule  never  to  say 
a  single  word  to  harm  a  servant  that 
applies  to  them  for  a  character; 
and  I  know  one  lady,  for  example, 
who,  though  she  has  had  really  all 
sorts  in  service,  gives  the  same  cha- 
racter to  every  one.  They  are  all 
good- tempered,  all  cleanly,  all  soher, 
and  so  on  ;  wlicn  I  know,  us  a  fact, 
some  of  thorn  have  heen  quite  dif- 
ferent. And  tlun,  you  see,  ma'am, 
this  woman  is  a  knowing  one;  she 
never  s' ows  her  temjier  to  you: 
most  likely  her  former  mistresses 
have  foun  t  her,  like  you  have,  quite 
civil  and  nspecttiil,  though  in  other 
kitchens  .she  has  gone  on  as  she  has 
in  yours.  It  is  seldom,  too,  we  can  get 
servants  to  siKjak  out  of  one  another. 
I  assure  you,  ma'am,  they'll  leave  a 
goo(i  place  siwuier.  I  don't  know 
when  I've  heard  one  speik  out  like 
that  fiK)tmiin  of  yours  did  :  and  it  is 
a  great  pity  they  don't ;  for  how  are 
you  or  1  to  knf)W — how's  anyone  to 
know— the  real  characters,  when 
t'ure's  an  agreement  like  to  keep 
the  truth  hack  fmm  us?  I  suppose, 
ma'am,  yon  intend  giving  the  cook 
notice?' 

'  Iiid(!ed  I  shall,'  replied  the  lady. 
'  I  shall  hurry  home  and  give  her 
warning  at  once;  and  I  do  lio|(e,  l>y 
doing  so,  1  (-hall  get  my  otht  r  ser- 
vants to  stoj)  on.  Do  you  tlimk 
they  will,  Mrs  Primwoithy  ?' 

'  l!eally,  nii'am,  I  hojK'  they  may, 
hut  I  cannot  yndertako  to  t-ny.  Ser- 
vant.s  has  got  such  queer  obstinate 


notions  sometimes.  Rut  I  think  if 
you  can  send  the  cook  away,  with- 
out letting  her  fancy  any  one  has 
heen  telling  of  her,  it  is  the  best 
thing  you  can  do,  ma'am.' 

'Good  morning,  then,  ;\Irs.  Prim- 
worthy:  I  muf^t  liurry  home.  I 
shill  call  again  to-morrow;  for  in 
any  case  you  will  have  to  help  me. 
I  only  trust  that  it  may  he  one  ser- 
vant, and  not  five,  that  1  shall  re- 
quire you  to  tin  1  fur  me.' 

The  lady  now  re-entered  her 
carriage,  and  tlie  fooMnan  closed  tho 
flour  after  her.  Before,  however, 
driving  away,  she  seemed  to  have 
rcraemhered  something  more,  for 
Jones  was  sent  hack  with  a  message 
relative  to  the  hour  of  the  morrow's 
visit;  having  delivered  which,  the 
man  seized  the  opportunity  of  add- 
it)g  just  a  word,  as  if  in  self-vindica- 
tion— 

'  You  sec,  mum,  we  never  likes 
telliu' on  one  another;  but  when  a 
woman  like  that  cook  do  forget 
herself,  and  come  to  treat  her  fellow- 
servants  as  if  they  were  all  her  in- 
f  riors,  why  then,  I  don't  tliink  the 
likes  of  her  don't  deserve  no  eon- 
si'leration,  but  only  to  be  treated 
ac  -ordin'.' 

'Quite  right,  Jones;  yon  need 
never  mind  telling  the  real  truth  in 
such  a  ca.se  as  that.' 

There  was  now  a  short  panse ; 
I^Irs.  Primworihy  taking  ailvantagu 
of  the  vacant  interval  to  i)ut  on  her 
spectacles  aTid  cast  her  eye  through 
a  handful  of  )ia])ers  whii-h  she  drew 
from  her  desk.  Thinks  I  to  my- 
self, as  I  mused  over  the  interview 
just  concliiilel,  such,  1  dare  say,  is 
but  a  revelation  of  what  tak'S  ])!iice 
fre(iuently  in  a  kitchen,  without 
ever  reaching  the  ear  of  master  or 
mistress.  Probably  many  a  mys- 
terious warning,  which  has  sorely 
j>erplexed  the  head  of  an  establish- 
ment, is  tr.iceabi(j  to  some  such 
cause  as  tliat  just  divulged.  While 
other  reasons  are  alleged,  the  truth 
is  that  there  is  some  cross  grained, 
cantankerous  spirit  l>elow  stairs, 
who  eml>itters  kitchen  life  to  one,  if 
not  more  of  its  occupants,  till  further 
endurance  of  it  Incomes  unbear- 
able. 

I  was  about  to  resume  my  news- 
paper, when  a  second  lady  t-tepptd 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Registry  Office. 


89 


in  by  appointment,  like  myself,  to 
meet  a  joung  woman  who,  fortu- 
nately for  hir,  was  already  await- 
ing her  arrival  in  another  'Salle 
d'Attente,'  and  had  only  to  be  sum- 
moned. One  glance  at  the  lady  con- 
vinced me  that,  although  she  might 
be  mistress  of  an  establishment,  she 
was  not  blest  with  a  family.  That 
somewhat  antiquated  bonnet;  that 
rather  short  adiiesive  skirt,  which 
evidently  gave  shelter  to  no  crino- 
line, and  that  quaintly- pinned  shawl, 
all  conspired  to  bespeak  unmistak- 
ably the  old  maid.  She  spoke  de- 
liberately, yet  somewhat  deter- 
mineiily ;  her  features  seemed  to 
take  no  interest  in  the  remarks  that 
escaped  her,  appearing  incapable  of 
evincing  pleasure,  pain,  or  anima- 
tion. 

'  You  see,'  she  began,  with  a  slow- 
ness bordering  on  solemnity,  that 
"would  almost  justify  the  following 
specimen  of  punctuation,  '  Mrs. 
Prim  worthy  ;  I  require,  a  person,  of 
more  than  ordinary,  respectability. 
Situated,  as  I  am ;  and  there  being 
only  females,  in  my  house;  it  is 
necessary  to  avoid,  the  slightest 
cause, for  scandal;  or  even,  remark. 
You  know;  I  keep,  but  the  two. 
I  require  them,  to  be  as  correct,  as 
myself,  in  every  way.' 

'  Of  course,  ma'am  ;  naturally  you 
do,'  replied  the  ever-coinciding  Mrs. 
Primworthy,  probably  thinking  all 
the  while  she  did  not  see  why 
respectable  attendants  were  more 
indispensable  in  the  case  of  this 
unprotected  female  than  with  any- 
body else,  and  adding,  '  Perhaps 
you'll  allow  me  to  call  the  young 
woman,  as  she  is  waiting,  and  then 
you  can  speak  to  her  yourself.' 

The  summons  resulted  in  the 
entree  of  a  good-looking  girl  of 
about  two-and-twenty ;  well,  but 
certiunly  not  gaily  dressed,  whose 
bright  eyes  and  animated  look  pre- 
sented a  marked  contrast  with  the 
unimpassioned  aspect  of  her  possible 
future  mistress.  Scarcely  possible, 
too,  thought  I ;  surely  this  cautious 
maiden  lady  seeks  something  far 
more  demure  than  this  damsel.  The 
girl  having  dropped  a  propitiatory 
curtsey,  the  lady  commenced  as  fol- 
lows, each  word  weighed  with  con- 
sistent deliberation. 


'  You  have  been  in  service  before, 
I  und(;rstand  ?' 

'  Yes,  maam ;  I  was  housemaid 
and  parlour-raaid  at  ray  last  place.' 

'  What  sort  of  place  was  it  ?— a 
quiet  place?' 

*  Oh  yes,  ma'am ;  'twas  a  very 
quiet  place,  and  very  little  com- 
pany.' 

'  Did  they  keep  any  men-ser- 
vants there?'  A  decided  stress 
upon  that  awful  word  of  three 
letters  being  perceptible. 

'  No,  ma'am,  they  d  du't  keep  no 
man-servants.  They  had  used  to 
keep  a  footman  afore  I  come ;  but  as 
I  could  wait  a^t  table,  master  said 
as  he  shouldn't  want  a  man  no 
more.' 

'  And  did  you  and  the  cook  do  all 
the  work  of  the  house  ?' 

'Not  quite  all,  we  didn't,  ma'am. 
There  was,  besides  us  two,  a  hoy  as 
used  to  clean  the  boots  and  knives, 
and  run  of  a  errand,  and  sometimes 
help  wait  at  table.' 

'Oh,  indeed!  there  was  a  boy, 
was  there? — and  pray  what  age 
was  the  boy  ?' 

*  Well,  ma'am,  I  think  he  said  as 
he  was  just  turned  sixteen.' 

*  As  much  as  that?  Was  he  a  big 
boy  or  a  little  boy  ?  because,  you 
know,  some  boys  at  sixteen  are 
almost  men,  and  quite  as  objection- 
able.' 

At  this  the  girl  could  not  sup- 
press a  smile,  nor  could  I:  not  in 
the  least  disconcerted,  however,  she 
rephed— 

'  Why,  he  wasn't  very  big  nor  yet 
very  little,  but  I  never  knowed  as 
there  was  ever  anything  against  the 
boy.' 

Despairing,  I  conclude,  of  elicit- 
ing further  information  touching 
this  interesting  youth  of  sixteen,  the 
lady  who,  I  noticed,  had  been  scruti- 
nizing the  young  woman's  attire 
from  head  to  foot,  next  went  into 
the  matter  of  dress,  on  which  sub- 
ject she  appeared  to  hold  decided 
views. 

*  In  ca~e  of  your  entering  my  ser- 
vice, I  must  tell  you  I  should  re- 
quire you  to  dress  very  simply.' 

*0h  yes,  ma'am,  certainly.  I've 
always  been  'customed  to  dress 
plain.' 

'  Yes,  but,'  resumed  the  lady,  *  I 


90 


Half  an  Hour  tii  a  Servants'  Seoistry  Office. 


caiiuot  fuiy  I  coiisiiltr  your  dress  to- 
day at  all  suitfd  to  a  servant.' 

As  I  plarn'od  at  the  girl's clothinj?, 
I  conrt'ss  1  could  discover  notliiiifi; 
with  which  even  a  fiustidions  mis- 
tress could  find  fault.  The  iKUinut 
certainly  was  trinnned  with  broad 
greon  rihhon  and  the  gown,  a  clean 
print,  ai)ixiuvd  to  owe  its  expansion 
to  ono   of  those  contrivances  held 


evidently  in  virtuous  horror  by  her 
punctilious  critici.scr. 

'  You  may  depend  upon  it,'  she 
continued,  '  it  is  very  much  more 
iK'Coming  that  the  dress  of  a  female 
should  sit  cIo.se  to  her  i>ersou  than 
that  it  should  be  spread  out  away 
from  it  in  that  manner.' 

I  wondered  at  the  moment  in 
what  sense  the  word  '  becoming ' 


'DID  TIIFT    KF.KP   ANV    MKH-.SKRV ANTS   THERE?' 


was  to  l»o  taken,  wliether  the  »sti- 
mable  la^Iy  was  und-  r  tlio  iin])r(  s- 
sion  that  a  skirt  whicli  sat  as  hers 
did  tende<l  most  to  show  the  fignro 
to  advantage.  Some  further  allu- 
sion, however,  which  she  made  re- 
lative to  the  proverbial  unsuitnblo- 
noas  of  crinoline  for  going  up-stairs 


soon  convinced  nao  that  her  objec- 
tion to  the  article  aro.so  solely  from 
her  notions  of  j)rof)riety. 

After  some  further  ob.servation8 
on  the  part  of  the  la<ly,  in  which 
she  jMiinted  out  the  iiii])ossil)ility  of 
the  girl's  doing  her  work  projxrly 
while   encumbered    with    the    ap- 


Salf  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Begisiry  OJJice. 


ill 


pendage  in  question,  the  latter 
yielded  so  lar  as  to  consent  to  lay  it 
,  aside  and  appear  sleek  and  slim 
during  working  hours.  Tins  point 
gained,  the  lady  next  inquired — 

'Have  yuu  been  in  the  habit  of 
wearing  a  cap  ?' 

'  i^ts,  nja'aiu,  I've  always  been 
used  to  wear  a  cap.' 

'  1  wonder  whether  it  is  what  / 
should  call  a  cap.  ISome  servants 
of  mine  have  told  me  before  1  en- 
gaged tlieiu  that  they  wore  caps,  but 
on  coming  to  me  they  have  had 
nothing  on  their  heads  but  a  tiny 
bit  of  net  which  you  could  not 
even  see  unless  you  stood  behind 
them.  Before  engaging  you,  I  think 
I  should  like  to  see  one  of  your 
caps.' 

'  Very  well,  ma'am.' 

'You  tell  ine  you  have  been  ac- 
customed to  optn  the  door.  1  hope 
your  manner  to  visitors  is  respectful 
and  modest,  especially  when  a  gen- 
tleman calls.  1  have  not  many  gen- 
tlemen visitors  ;  but  you  know,  to 
a  gentleman  you  cannot  be  too 
guarded  and  reserved  in  your 
manner.  Never  say  a  word  more 
than  you  can  help,  and  never  be 
seen  to  smile  or  look  jDleased  as 
some  servaots  do.' 

The  next  inquiry  on  the  part  of 
the  lady  had  reference  to  her  leaving 
her  last  place— the  reason  why.  To 
which  the  girl  with,  as  I  thought, 
great  candour  gave  an  answer  well- 
nigh  fatal  to  her  present  prospect  of 
engagement. 

'  Well,  ma'am,  missvs  always  said 
asshewas  quite  satisfied  with  the  way 
I  did  my  work,  and  I  shouldn't  have 
had  to  leave  only  she  thought  as  I 
had  an  acquaintance.' 

*  A  what  V 

*  An  acquaintance,  ma'am.' 

*  An  acquaiutanee  !'  exclaimed  the 
maiden  lady,  her  hitherto  inflexible 
features  being  for  the  first  time 
summoned  to  particiiiate  in  the 
horrified  amazement  with  which  the 
disclosure  was  received — 'an  ac- 
quaintance !  Oil,  I  do  not  wonder 
that  you  should  have  had  notice.  I 
never  would  keep  a  servant  m  my 
house  who  was  capable  of  such  an 
impropriety.  A  place  soon  loses  its 
name  for  respectability  if  acquaint- 
ances are  tolerated.' 


'  But,  if  you  please,  ma'am,'  re- 
plied the  young  woman,  '  it  wasn't 
true,  only  missus  sus|)octed  so.' 

'Ah!  but  I  should  bo  afraid  she 
had  some  ground  for  her  suspicion. 
Servants  are  so  foolish.  They  re- 
quire so  much  watching  to  keep 
them  proper  and  respectable  that  it 
causes  ladies  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
and  anxiety.  It  shall  never  be  said 
that  I  fail  to  look  after  mine.  Even 
on  the  Sunday,  when  they  must 
of  course  go  to  church,  I  keep  them 
within  my  own  ol)servati()n.  I  al- 
ways make  them  walk  close  behind 
me  and  sit  near  my  pew  where  I 
can  see  them,  so  that  no  one  can 
even  speak  to  them  without  my 
being  aware  of  it ;  besides  that,  I 
consider  it  my  duty  to  see  all  the 
letters  that  my  servants  recti ve,  so 
as  to  prevent  anything  like  an  im- 
proper correspim  lence.' 

On  the  disclosure  of  so  com- 
plete a  system  of  espionage,  the  idea 
seemed  to  occur  to  the  young 
woman  that  the  situation  might  not 
be  quite  so  desirable  as  she  had  sujd- 
posed,  and  for  the  first  time  there 
were  symptoms  of  non-ac(iuiesceuee 
in  the  lady's  mode  of  dealing  with 
her  domestics ;  so  she  replied,  still 
quite  respectfully — 

*  Please,  ma'am,  I've  always  been 
used  to  have  an  hour  or  two  to  my- 
self of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  ain't 
never  been  'customed  to  show  any- 
body the  letters  as  I  gets.' 

'  Well,  I  could  not  alter  my  rules 
for  any  servant.  I  only  act  in  ac- 
cordance with  what  I  ronceive  to  be 
my  duty.  If  you  think  my  ways 
too  strict,  you  had  better  not  think 
of  my  place.' 

There  was  a  few  moments'  pause, 
during  which  the  girl  looked  down, 
as  if  to  collect  from  off  the  floor  her 
thoughts  or  words  wherein  to  ex- 
press them,  the  result  being,  as  I 
quite  anticipated,  her  final  answer — 

*  I'm  'most  afeard,  ma'am,  I 
shouldn't  give  you  satisfaction.' 

An  exchange  of  '  good-mornings ' 
now  terminated  tiis  interesting 
though  abortive  interview;  and  Mrs. 
Prim  worthy  and  the  lady  being  left 
in  sole  occupation  of  the  office,  the 
latter  re-commenced. 

'  I  scarcely  thought  that  person 
would   answer  for  me  when   she 


92 


Ha^f  an  ITonr  in  a  Servants'  BegiDinj  Office. 


camo  into  your  office.  She  is  evi- 
dently fond  of  drops,  and  altofrcthor 
tluTO  \va«!  a  style  ab mt  her  that  I  do 
not  like  in  a  servant." 

'Well,  ma'am,"  replied  Mrs.  Prim- 
worthy,  'as  regards  the  matter  of 
dress,  wliy  ydu  see,  ma'am,  servants 
is  apt  to  p  t  a  liit  dressy  now-a-days, 
and  to  tell  yon  the  truth,  ma'am,  I 
shouldn't  really  have  "considered 
that  girl  at  all  jiaily  dressed  as  the 
times  go.  Tliines  is  a  pood  deal 
ohanped  now  in  comparison  as  they 
used  to  Ih?;  and  the  fact  is,  yon  can't 
pet  servants  to  dre.ss  themselves  the 
sameas  they  did  twenty  or  thirty  years 
apo  with  larjje  caji'^  tied  xinder  the 
chin  and  honnets  with  scarcely  any 
ril)l>on,  an<l  short  skimpy  skirts  and 
such  like.  The  times  is  altered,  and 
we  shtin't  have  servants  the  same  as 
they  used  to  lie  never  again  no  more. 
I^sides,  ma'am,  mistres.ses  is  so  dif- 
ferent. I  know  some  that  takes  a 
sort  of  pride  in  the  appearance  of 
their  servants,  and  wouldn't  liavc 
them  dressed  in  the  old-fashioned 
Btyle  on  no  account  whatever.' 

'How  stninpe  that  docs  seem! 
Perhap"^  you  had  l>etter  try  and  find 
me  a  more  elderly  jxrson.  Have 
you  any  one  on  your  list  at  present 
who  you  think  would  suit  me?' 

'  No,  ma'am,  not  at  present,  I'm 
Korrj-  to  .'■ay,  no  one  at  all ;  and  I'm 
really  afniid  I  ^hall  have  some  ilif- 
ficulty  in  meeting  with  the  kind  of 
person  you  require.' 

'  So  I  .'ihoidd  fancy/  soliloquized 
I,  as  on  the  dt  ])arturc  of  this  model 
mi.'^tress  1  indulped  in  speculations 
as  to  whence  the  good  lady  had 
derivtd  lier  notions  of  'domestic' 
treatment ;  whether  she  had  herself 
in  earlier  years  Uen  suhjfcted  to 
anything  correspondent  in  the  way 
of  supervisidH  and  restraint,  and 
whether,  if  so,  how  it  had  answered 
in  her  own  cu^e  Whetlp  r,  for  ex- 
ample, pains  had  heen  taken  to  im- 
press ujKin  her  youlhful  mind  the 
impropriety  of  posses.'^ing  an  '  ac- 
quaintanee,'  and  all  Kuch  ohjecticm- 
ahle  su|)crfluitie«  had  Ixen  judi- 
ciously kept  aloof.  Who  knows  hut 
what  her  present  freedom  from 
marital  encutnhranco  may  t>e  due  to 
the  successful  adoption  of  this  sys- 
tem ?  She  miiy  jverhaps  owe  Ik  r 
Btatc    of    blishful    celihacy   to    thu 


praiseworthy  intervention  of  parents 
or  others  who  cheeked  every  ten- 
dency to  cultivate  an  acquaintance, 
and,  tlianks  to  their  efforts,  life  re- 
mains to  lier  one  continued  game  of 
so/ifiiirr.  But,  be  it  even  so,  I  liegan 
to  have  my  doubts  wh(  ther  the  plan 
on  which  this  respected  lndy  acted 
was  tlie  right  one.  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  see  the  pro|)ricty  of 
treating  servants  like  young  school- 
girls, to  say  nothing  of  the  jiracti- 
cable  impossibility  of  doing  so.  It 
is,  no  diuibt,  a  great  nni.eance  to 
know  that  one  or  more  young  men 
are  hovering  over  an  equal  nundter 
of  your  female  attendants,  and  a 
still  greater  one  when,  on  the  ripen- 
ing of  the  acquaintance  into  .some- 
thing more,  a  pood  servant  like 
Betsy  takes  herself  off  '  for  better 
for  worse,'  leavitig  you  as  good  as 
cookle.ss.  or  nurseless,  or  housemaid- 
less  ;  and  it  is  not  to  \xi  wondered  at 
if,  after  such  painful  experience,  the 
mistress  of  a  house  shouM  insert  a 
clause  in  her  rcsfilutionsjirohibiting 
henceforth  all  followers;  but  this 
does  not  answer,  nor  ever  will  while 
the  law  of  nature  continues  against 
it;  and  so  singular  am  I,  that  I  now 
prefer  engaging  a  servant  who  has  a 
respe'ctalile  well-detined  Joseph  on 
the  horizon  with  whom  she  is  per- 
nntted  to  'keep  company'  at  inter- 
vals, rather  than  a  young  woman 
who.  I  know,  will  be  on  the  watch 
to  take  in  tow  the  first  Ilick,  Tom, 
or  Harry— perhaps  all  thre>e,  whom 
she  may  sucreeil  in  signalising. 

But  the  time  was  passing,  and  my 
young  woman  had  not  come.  Weary 
of  waiting,  I  rose  to  depart,  when  Mrs. 
rrimwf)rthy,  knowing  I  hud  come 
some  distance,  ]u-evaili'd  upe)n  mo 
to  '  wait  a  little  longer."  I  was  about 
to  s])eak  to  her  al>out  the  person 
whfuu  the  maiden  lady  had  sent 
arlrift,  and  who,'  I  thought,  might 
have  suite'd  me.  when  she  was  again 
summoned  t)acl\  to  her  oftice.  A 
yening  man  with  light  hnir  and  fair 
conijth  xion,  alnuit  live-and-twenty, 
well  got-up  in  a  suit  of  light- 
coloured  garments  and  an  Alt)ert 
chain  dangling  gracefully  from  a 
buttoidiolo,  had  come  to  trau'-act 
Imsiness  with  the  accommfxlating 
Mrs.  I'limworthy.  lie  Ims  rome  in 
quest  of  a  valet  eie  chanibre,  was  my 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Begistry  Office. 


93 


conclusion;  or,  maybe,  he  is  a  mar- 
ried man  and  is  deputed  by  his  wife 
to  negotiate  lor  some  female  servant 
or  other.  It  was  then  with  un- 
feigned surprise  that  1  heard  Mrs. 
Primworthy  address  him  familiarly 
as  '  Thomas/  inquiring  interestedly, 
at  the  same  time,  after  his  parents 
and  family.  Greater  still  was  my 
amazement  when,  on  proceeding  to 
business,  I  heard  the  question  asked 
him,  '  What  made  you  leave  your 
last  situation  ?'  Yes  indeed,  how- 
ever hard  to  credit  it,  this  was  a 
footman  out  of  place  !  He  had  come 
to  see  if  Mrs.  Primworthy  could  tind 
him  another  berth. 

'Why  did  I  leave  my  last  situa- 
tion ?'  he  answered,  echoing  Mrs. 
Prim  worthy's  question — '  I  left  it 
because  my  feelings  would  not  allow 
me  to  remain  any  longer;  and  when 
you  hear  all  particulars,  you'll  only 
wonder  how  I  put  up  with  it  so 
long.' 

'Indeed,  Thomas.  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  that.  Let  me  see— you  was 
only  there  four  months — was  not 
that  all?' 

'  Six  months,  Mrs.  Primworthy, 
such  a  six  months  as  I  hope  never 
to  pass  in  any  other  situation,  and 
I'll  take  care  I  don't  if  I  can  help  it. 
Why,  they  don't  know  how  to  treat 
a  respectable  man ;  and  then,  the 
things  I  was  expected  to  do  there, 
it  brings  up  all  my  indignation  to 
think  of  them.  First  of  all,  I  wasn't 
even  given  a  room  to  myself,  but  was 
forced  to  share  a  bedroom  with  the 
groom,  a  common  fellow  who  used 
to  snore  so  loud  I  had  to  lie  awake 
for  hours  listening  to  him.  To  think 
of  this,  after  what  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to !  and  then,  this  low  chap, 
he  knew  so  little  of  his  place,  and 
all  that  was  due  to  me,  that  he  re- 
fused to  clean  my  boots  the  very 
first  morning  after  I  came,  eaying  I 
was  just  as  much  a  servant  as  he 
was ;  so  that  I  had  actually  to  do 
my  own  boot  cleaning  during  the 
whole  of  those  blessed  six  months.' 

'  Well  but,  Thomas,  I  don't  think 
such  little  annoyances  as  those  suf- 
ficient cause  for  leaving  a  good  situ- 
ation.' 

'  You  wouldn't  call  it  a  good 
situation  if  you  knew  all  the  rest  I 
had  to  put  up  with.    A  good  situa- 


tion indeed !  That  is  just  what  I 
was  told  it  was  before  I  went  there. 
I  expected  they  were  good  stylish 
sort  of  people,  who  knew  what  a  man 
in  my  position  would,  and  what  he 
would  not,  stand.  Such  unfashion- 
able hours,  too,  as  they  kept  I  never 
heard  of  before!  If  they  didn't 
breakfast  at  eight  o'clock,  and  then 
exj^ect  me  to  be  all  dressed  and 
ready  to  attend  table  at  such  a  time 
of  day  as  that.  Of  course  I  told 
them  at  once  I  couldn't  do  it ;  they 
must  get  the  parlour  maid  to  wait 
at  breakfast,  and  answer  the  bells, 
too,  and  not  expect  me  anywhere 
upstairs  till  after  twelve  o'clock.' 

'  That  was  making  rather  bold,  I 
think,  Thomas.  You'll  find  very  few 
places  iu'leed  where  you'll  be  left 
to  yourself  till  twelve  in  the  day.' 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Primworthy,  that  is 
my  resolution,  and  I  iotend  keei^ing 
to  it.  They  required  nothing  more 
at  my  former  situation,  because  they 
knew  better  what  a  man  like  me 
was  entitled  to.  But  there  was  lots 
of  other  things  they  wanted  me  to 
submit  to.  When  I  engaged  for  the 
place,  it  was  understood  that  I 
should  have  a  suit  of  clothes  at  the 
end  of  every  six  months,  making  two 
suits  in  the  year ;  but  after  I  had 
been  there  about  two  months,  the 
gentleman  sends  for  me  and  says  he, 
"  Thomas,  there  are  two  suits  of 
clothes  of  mine  on  the  drawers  in 
my  dressing-room  which  you  can 
have ;  they  are  not  at  all  worn  out; 
take  and  get  them  altered  to  fit  you 
as  they  are  well  worth  it."  I  felt  my 
pride  hurt  at  this,  and  no  wonder, 
so  says  I  to  him,  "  No,  sir,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you,  I  don't  wear  othei" 
people's  cast-oifclothing,  buti  don't 
mind  carrying  them  down  stairs  and 
giving  them  to  Bill  the  groom.  I 
dare  say  they  will  be  useful  to  him, 
and  perhaps  he  wont  mind  wearing 
them  as  they  are  without  even  alter- 
ing!" And  what  do  you  think 
Mr. says  to  me  because  I  men- 
tioned this  about  Bill  and  the  old 
clothes  ?  Why,  he  calls  me  an  inso- 
leut  fellow,  and  tells  me  to  be  off 
down  stairs.  So,  when  my  time  was 
up,  at  the  end  of  the  six  months,  I 
received  my  wages  right  enough, 
and  quite  naturally  I  looked  for  the 
suit  of  clothes  according  to  agree- 


94 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants*  Registry  Office. 


mont ;  thinking;  how  nice  it  would 
1k'  for  mo  to  liave  pomo  prood  new 
things   to  ('OHIO  nway  with,   wlicn 

Mr. liirns  and  hogiiis  alnisinpj 

nie  hke  an.vtliinp,  snyinp  he  iiaii 
done  moro  than  ever  he  was  hound 
to  do  in  offr-i  ini:  me  those  old  tilings 
of  his,  so  I  shouldn't  pet  anything 
more  out  of  him,  inid  it  was  no  uso 
for  me  trying  to.  If  that  wasn't  bc- 
Jiaving  slmhlty !' 

'  I  think,  Thomas,'  interposed 
IVIrs  Priinworthy,  '  you  was  wrong 
in  refusing  tlio  cloth<F.  rerliajw  if 
it  was  not  spteitied  tliat  the  clot^  es 
should  l>e  new  ones,  Mr. con- 
sidered he  was  acting  up  to  the 
terms  he  eng)p<  d  y<m  on  in  offering 

you  what  he  did.     I  know  Mr. 

has  always  been  represented  to  me 
as  a  thorough  gentleman,  and  the 
last  young  man  as  was  there  said  it 
was  a  nice  comfortable  place  and  he 
was  sorry  to  leave.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  Thomas,  I'm  afraid  you  was 
n  little  bit  spoiled,  as  the  saying  is,  at 
the  place  wliere  you  was  iK'fore.' 

'  Well,  you  do  astonish  mo  to 
think  how  any  man  of  proper  feel- 
ings could  call  that  a  comiortuble 
place ;  but  it  showed  the  sort  of 
men  they  had  before  me  when  they 
httd  actually  been  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  the  coals  upstairs.  They 
tried  this  on  with  me  when  tirst  I 
came,  expecting  I  was  going  to  carry 
two  or  three  great  scuttlefuls  of 
coals  a-flay  all  the  way  Irora  tlio 
coal-cellar  np  to  the  drawing-room. 
But,  as  I  told  them,  my  hands  are 
not  made  for  that  sort  of  work,  and 
what's  more,  I  und'rstofxl  ray  ]ilace 
much  too  well  to  submit  to  it  if  they 
Iiad  l>etn.  I  never  made  any  oi»- 
jection  to  lift  the  coals  on  to  the  lire 
when  tho  coal-Wix  stood  ready  l>e- 
side  the  chimm  ypiece,  so  as  to  save 
the  ladies  the  trouble;  and  as  I  was 
anxious  to  Im  aceommodatinp,  I  told 
them  if  they  would  get  a  sort  of 
coaI-cupl)oard  built  on  the  landing 
outside  tho  drawing-room  door,  as 

Lady did,  to  hold  two  or  three 

day.s'  coal,  I  should nt  ev(  n  make  a 
ditViculty  al>out  tilling  the  coal-l>ox 
from  there:  Imt  as  to  carrying  the 
Cual-box  np-stairs,  I  shouldn't  do  it.' 

'And  did  they  actually  let  you  olf 
carrying  the  coals  Vin'mired  thea.sto- 
ninlied  Mrs.  I'rimwortliy,  becoming. 


like  myself,  more  and  more  amazed 
at  Thomas's  presumption.  '  If  they 
did,  I  tliitdv  }ou  were  treat*  d  with 
gnat  indulgence  there  altogether.' 

'  Indulgenc*!'.'  exclaimed  the  man, 
'don't  speak  of  indil^*  nco  in  that 
house.  1  might  as  well  have  g(me 
for  six  months  to  gaol  at  once  for  all 
the  inilulgence  that  was  allowed  us 
tin  re.  Of  course,  a  luiii  like  me 
when  he  has  d^me  his  work,  likes  to 
spend  his  evenings  now  and  then 
with  his  friends  or  at  his  clul>.  But 
never  could  I  get  out  of  a  night 
without  fir.'^t  askinp  leave,  and  then 
it  was  always,  '•  What  do  you  want 
to  go  out  for,  Thomas?'  or  "  Where 
do  you  want  to  go  to,  Thomas?"  or 
"  How  long  shall  you  be  gone,  Tho- 
mas ?"  making  me  feel  more  like  as 
if  1  was  a  ticket-ol-leave  man  than 
a  man  bearing  the  res|Kctable  cha- 
racter I  did.  And  would  you  lie- 
lieve,  though  I  ottered  to  j)ut  a  lock 
on  the  back  door  and  stand  the  ex- 
pense myself,  so  as  I  miglit  come  in 
any  hour  of  the  night  without  dis- 
turbing the  family,  the  gentleman 
he  wouldn't  allow  it,  sa\ing  he  won- 
dered only  however  1  could  asksucJi 
a  thing.  That  (ioesii't  much  look 
like  indulgence,!  should  .say,  should 
you  ?' 

'  As  to  the  matter  of  going  out  at 
nights,  Thomas,'  rcpliecl  .Mrs.  Frim- 
wortliy,  '  1  know  of  many  places 
where  that  is  not  allowed  tor  a 
tial)it,  and  yet  the  master  and  mis- 
tro.ss,  I  f-hould  say,  quite  as  m<lul- 
gent  as  need  lie.  lint  now,  what  do 
you  wish  me  to  do  tor  you  ?  because, 
you  see,  here  is  some  one  else  come 
to  do  business  with  me  and  1  dare 
pay  her  tune  is  precious,  the  same  as 
mine  is.' 

'  Why,  what  J  want  is  a  regular 
first-class  situation;  and  I  think  a 
butler's  place  the  one  to  suit  me 
I>e8t,  because  people  always  treat  a 
butler  with  greater  respect  and  con- 
sideraticm  than  they  do  a  footman. 
It  seems  to  me  a  butler  holds  a  situ- 
aticm  sort  of  half-way  in  a  family  lie- 
tweeii  the  parlour  and  the  kitchen. 
He  is  not  exactly  mastcjr  nor  he  isn't 
looked  upon  quite  like  a  servant; 
and  then,  too,  his  having  charge 
of  the  wine,  and  the  silver  and 
such-like  things,  of  itselt  makes  his 
place  of  importance ;  and  to  tell  you 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Registry  Office. 


95 


the  trntli,  IMrs.  Prim  worthy,  it  is 
not  every  oin;  that  is  qualitieil  for  it, 
I'lit  alter    the    experience  I    have 

had ' 

Thomas  was  not  permitted  to 
tlnish  tbe  proclamation  of  his  com- 
petency for  tlie  oflice  newly  aspired 
to,  ]Mrs.  Primworthy  making  so  ma- 
nifest a  transfer  of  her  attention  to 
the  new  arrival  that  he  male  his 
how,  dguifjing  at  the  same  time  his 
intention  of  calling  again  in  a  day 
or  two.  Wliat  was  effected  at  the 
threatened  interview  1  did  not  learn, 


but  I  remember  thinking  at  the  time, 
liad  I  been  Mrs.  Primworthy,  I 
eliould  be  somewhat  cautions  about 
helping  this  airified  gentleman  into 
a  first-cla«s  family,  even  in  the  new 
form  of  bixtler.  Curiosity  tempted 
me  to  ask  the  woman  something 
about  him,  when  she  told  me  she 
had  known  him  for  years ;  that  he 
had  been  taken  by  the  hand  out  of  a 
hovel  by  some  one  or  other  who  had 
given  him  a  decent  education  and 
provided  him  with  two  or  three  suc- 
cessive situations.    Till  lately,  none 


knew  his  place  better  than  did  Tho- 
lua-!,  but  he  had  recently  held  a  situa- 
tion at  a  Lady 's,  who  had,  in 

fa',',t,  as  Mrs.  Primworthy  expressed 
it,  completely  spoiled  him.  Tin's 
lady,  under  the  by  no  means  rare 
delusion  that  she  had  got  a  treasure, 
was  persua-led  that  she  could  not  do 
enough  for  Thomas  nor  require  too 
little  from  him,  coupled  with  a  su- 
perstitious dread  of  the  awfulness  of 
the  calamity,  should  Thomas  ever 
leave  her.  Under  the  combined  influ- 
ence of  these  joint  impressions,  it 
M'as  no  wonder  if  Thomas's  indul- 
gt  nces  increased  both  in  number  and 
in  magnitude.  What  he  liked  he  did, 
and  what  he  liked  not  he  left  alone  or 


did  by  deputy,  till  it  had  grown  hard 
to  deiine  exactly  the  nature  of  the 
position    which    he    held    in    this 

Lady 's    establishment ;     and 

there,  no  doubt,  it  was  he  had  con- 
ceived the  happy  notion  of  a  neutral 
office  between  upstairs  rule  and 
downstairs  servitude  for  which  he 
deemed  himself  so  admirably  suited. 
But    in    an    evil    day     for    him, 

Lady took  ill  and  died,  died 

most  unexpectedly.  Poor  Thomas, 
of  course,  participated  in  the  general 
dispersion  of  her  retinue  that  en- 
sued, winding  up  in  the  service  of 

this  Mr. ,  six  months' experience 

of  which  had  quite  satisfied  him. 
It  was  now  my  turn,  the   last 


96 


Half  an  Hour  in  a  Servants'  Regiatrij  Office. 


comer  already  alluded  to  bcinpc  the 
iudividiial  whom  1  was  exiKitiup, 
and  whose  appeiir;uice  was  vi-rily  a 
relief  to  me;  for  altliough  1  confess 
to  have  K-eii  somewhat  entertained 
by  miu'li  I  had  W%'\\  fain  to  listen  to, 
I,  in  truth,  desired  to  hear  no  more. 
My  own  l)a-iness  wa.s  of  a  very  ordi- 
nary nature  and  speedily  concluded. 
Had  au)  thing  passed  worth  jotting 
down,  it  should  have  been  recorded 
for  the  l)enefit  of  the  reader ;  but  I 
refrain  from  inflicting  tlie  recital  of 
my  com'iionplaco  transaction  upon 
others  who,  like  myself,  have  pro- 
bably bad  enougb  of  the  subject. 

My  admission  behind  the  scenes,  if 
I  may  so  term  it,  went,  I  think,  to 
strengthen  the  notions  I  had  already 
held  as  to  the  correct  moilo  of  deal- 
ing with  domestic  servants.  I  had 
always  been  imder  the  impr&ssion 
that  there  were  two  errors  to  guard 
against  if  you  desire  to  be  satisfiawj- 


torily  served.  One  is,  the  mislaid e 
of  being  over  strict,  and  the  other 
that  of  l)uiiig  too  iiulidgent.  To 
steer  evenly  a  midway  course  Ikj- 
tween  these  two  very  common  ten- 
dencies, while  it  forms  one  of  the 
secrets  of  successful  man:igemtnt,  is 
an  art  of  which  few  are  muster.  And 
a  third  notion  of  mine  is  this — that 
lor  the  kitchen,  the  happiest  and 
most  successful  form  of  government 
is  the  republican.  If  cook  Ix'  presi- 
dent, let  her  bo  nothing  more.  A 
monarchy  below-stairs  never  an- 
swers. If  cook  is  j)cruiif  ted  to  wield 
the  reins,  she  will  very  soon  assume 
tlie  whip,  and  the  community  will 
be  subject  to  ])criodical  disruption. 
Being  already  preposses.';ed  with  the 
correctness  of  my  tlieory,  I  came 
away  with  existing  impressions 
deepened  by  what  I  wivs  constrained 
to  hear  during  my  hali-hour's  de- 
tention in  the  iServaials'  Eegistry. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK   IS  DUE  ON   THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


!^,^J,^,}^^,^'^^^''^'<'"i'if^iu[mHytmi 


AA      000  262  989    7 


4 


I 


